Quivering Hearts
by Psyche17
Summary: Unable to fight in any more battles, Kira is assigned by Merlin to matchmaking, but what happens when she accidentily falls for one of the knights? TristanOC
1. Chapter 1

I can't believe I'm starting another story already, but here we go. This is probably an incredibly strange idea for a fic, but it is loosely inspired by the myth of Cupid and Psyche, which if you can't tell by my penname, I rather like. I'm sure that as most of my fics tend to do, this one will end up dripping with sentimental sewage, but oh well. Also, for the sake of this fic, Lancelot and Tristan survive the battle at Badon Hill.

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Warriors make the best lovers and the worst lovers. They are the best because they understand passion, intensity, and fervor. Loving and killing are not so very different in that sense, but warriors have trained themselves when the battle is done to bury the emotions that killing arouses. What makes them the worst lovers is that they also bury the emotions that loving enkindles.

I don't know any of this from personal experience, though I'm not particularly sorry about that. I have never loved anyone, least of all a warrior, in that way. My authority on the subject comes from the fact that my business is the love affairs of warriors, specifically Arthur Castus' Sarmation Knights of Hadrian's Wall. That sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Allow me to explain.

I used to myself be a warrior---before the Unspeakable happened that left me crippled. Being the daughter of the Woad leader Merlin, I was an incredibly lethal killer. I excelled at archery and sword fighting, earning the envy of even the most conceited boys my age who thought the most important blade was the one in their pants. After the Unspeakable happened that shattered the bones in my left leg, however, I wasn't able to fight, not even on Badon Hill, the most important battle of our history.

It was just before the battle of Badon Hill that my humiliating career as a matchmaker began. Believe me, this base occupation of meddling in other people's sordid love affairs is the last thing I wanted to be doing with my life. I should have fought that day on Badon Hill, even if it had meant my death.

Instead, a few days before the battle, my father Merlin gave me an assignment involving my older sister, Guinevere. To be completely honest, I had always been a little jealous of Guinevere. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and everyone, particularly the male everyone, had always loved her. I remembered how all the boys in our tribe would always bring her flowers. It's not that I wanted to _be_ Guinevere. I loved who I was. I just wished other people would love who I was too.

The assignment Merlin gave me seemed simple enough. He believed that if Arthur Castus were to fall in love with Guinevere, then she would surely be able to persuade him to stay and help us fight the Saxons. I was perplexed as to how my irresistible sister could possibly need my help to woo the frigid commander, but Merlin, dark magician that he was, explained to me that he had developed a concoction that could make people fall in love. Once a person was infected with that potion, they would fall madly in love with the first person they saw of the opposite sex (I know what you're thinking, and yes, Merlin developed a similar concoction for same-sex love as well).

I know this must all sound crazy, and believe me I had my doubts, but who can argue with the results? I watched the caravan carefully move across the frozen lake from my hiding place in the trees. I watched as Guinevere and the knights lined up to face the Saxon army. There I sat poised with my bow and my arrow dipped in the potion, waiting for the right moment. When Arthur ran out onto the ice in vain to save his knight Dagonet, I let loose the arrow and watched it graze the side of his neck. It was a perfect shot and at just the right angle to make him think it had come from a Saxon crossbow. I must admit I was rather proud of myself. More importantly, however, as you may have already ascertained, the product of this injury was the melting of Arthur's heart at Guinevere's seduction and his consequent decision to stay and fight for the freedom of Britain.

That's what started all this matchmaking business. Merlin, my crazy old bastard of a father, was so pleased with the results of the Arthur and Guinevere pairing that soon after Badon Hill he decided I should find matches for all of Arthur's knights. It was so insulting. I, who could have been a great warrior, had been reduced to conniving and meddling in others' romantic affairs. I suppose I should have just refused, but what had a cripple like me better to do?

My name is Kira, by the way, and I've always liked my name because it starts with the hard 'K' sound that let's people know I mean business. I think that a person's name is one of the most important things about them. Parents should never name their child something silly like "Lancelot." Names with aesthetically feminine letters like 'L' and 'S' should be given only to girls who have nothing better to do than sit around and make themselves look pretty. No wonder Lancelot always felt the need to overcompensate.

Good names for boys start with strong letters like 'G'. Galahad and Gawain had very intelligent parents for exactly this reason. Tristan is an alright name, I guess. It's actually very fitting for Arthur's scout since it means "sad" or "melancholy." I think that was why Tristan had always been my least favorite of the knights (not that I much fancied any of them, mind you). What had he to be so melancholy about? He had fought at Badon Hill and survived despite injuries that would have killed any other man. And yet he was always so damn depressed all the time. Well, perhaps he was not actually _depressed_, but he was certainly never happy either and so he frustrated me. I couldn't stand people who found no joy in life.

Anyways, you'll have to forgive me. I tend to run off on tangents. As I was saying, Merlin was so pleased with my handiwork that he decided I should make matches for the rest of the unattached knights: Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, and Tristan.

My first target was Gawain because he seemed to be the one most desperate for love. For some time, he had been infatuated with a village girl named Anna who lived just a half a mile south of Hadrian's Wall. Every day, Gawain would stalk off into the forest to watch as Anna brought two buckets to the lake to gather water. He had never known a greater pleasure than watching how she would pull back her long brown hair as she stooped down to dip her bucket into the lake or how she would dry her hands on the hem of her skirt.

Gawain had never actually been able to conjure up the courage to speak to Anna until one day I set into motion events that would force them into an acquaintance with each other. I filled my quiver with love-inducing arrows and hobbled off into the forest towards the lake. Now, there was no need to hit Gawain with any of Merlin's potion because he was already sick with love for the maiden, but there was no leaving to chance her returning his affections.

That day, when Anna leaned over to scoop water into her bucket, an arrow flew from the trees, embedding itself in the back of her leg. She cried out in pain, tears welling up in her pretty hazel eyes. Just as I had intended, Gawain burst forth from where he had hidden himself and rushed to the maiden's aid.

Anna seemed frightened at first by his appearing out of nowhere and probably thought it had been he who had shot the arrow. Her first instinct therefore was to shrink away from him with a look fear and distrust. Gawain, however, proved himself to be a gentleman of honorable intentions and easily gained her trust by assuring her in the gentlest way possible that he meant her no harm. Anna then allowed him to pull the arrow from her leg and soon found comfort in leaning her tear-streaked face against his shoulder. Not to boast, but I daresay I am quite gifted at this romance thing, after all.

Next on my list was Galahad. He was the youngest knight and seemed a bit too naïve and overly passionate for his own good. He needed someone more mature, an older woman perhaps. Bors' lover Vanora had a friend who worked with her at the tavern named Eleanor. Eleanor had raven black hair and a womanly figure. She had experienced many hard times in her life, but they had not made her bitter. Instead, Eleanor was one who always spoke freely, but sensibly with a sound mind and strong values. Galahad needed that kind of direction in his life.

It just so happened that Galahad was at the tavern one night while Eleanor was working and as fate would have it, he sat at a table that she was responsible for serving. Galahad, not paying any particular or special attention to her, ordered one mug of ale as he was accustomed to doing. Eleanor was an efficient worker and hustled to retrieve his drink. Little did she know, I had managed to limp my way over to her station without arousing any suspicion and while she wasn't looking, I poured some of Merlin's potion into Galahad's mug of ale.

Eleanor plopped the mug down on the table in front of Galahad who immediately took a swig of the ale. His face turned a sudden shade of gray and he wrinkled up his nose in disgust. He forced himself to swallow the potion contaminated drink, which as I had suspected, tasted of a mix of bile and refuse. "There's something wrong with this," he managed to utter hoarsely, pushing the mug away from him.

"What?" asked Eleanor, placing one hand on her hip and raising a skeptical eyebrow. She wasn't in the mood for nonsense.

"It tastes funny," Galahad replied weakly.

"Let me see," said Eleanor impatiently, snatching the mug from the table and taking a sip for herself. She nearly spit it out. "You're right!" she exclaimed with repugnance, "It's terrible!"

Galahad and Eleanor looked at each other and laughed. My job was done.

Lancelot was my next victim, but he was quite the conundrum. You see, in his case, Merlin had instructed me that I was not actually supposed to allow him to fall in love with anyone who would ever return the sentiment. Apparently, there was discontent among the Woad men now stationed at Hadrian's Wall who were continuously losing their women to Lancelot's bed. They demanded justice or else they would take their own revenge on the promiscuous knight. Realizing the rift this vengeance would create between the Woads and the knights, Merlin hastily struck a compromise with his men that Lancelot would be punished with eternal celibacy and would never steal another one of their women again.

That's where I came in. Merlin figured that if Lancelot were to fix his attention on someone unattainable, it would keep him out of the other maidens' beds. To me the whole plan seemed a bit harsh, but I supposed Lancelot had it coming. The problem was that there didn't seem to be any woman on earth immune to Lancelot's charms.

I needed to find someone who for whatever reason would never let herself be tempted by Lancelot's magnetism and charisma. I was at a loss. I decided to consult Merlin because, after all, it had been his idea in the first place. Merlin was sympathetic to my predicament and thought for a long while on who could possibly withstand Lancelot's seduction.

He finally came to the rather shocking conclusion that Lancelot should be made to pine after none other than Guinevere. In a strange way, it actually made sense. Guinevere was a warrior like I should have been and was above such petty pursuits as love. Her only goal in life was our country's freedom which she ensured by her politically motivated marriage to Arthur. Merlin knew his eldest daughter's heart and knew that her sworn duty to her people could never be broken by any man, no matter how attractive. He also knew that Lancelot's own loyalty to Arthur would prevent him from acting on any feelings he would render for his friend's wife. This plan seemed plausible enough to me.

While Lancelot was busy grooming his horse, I sent an anonymous note to Guinevere to come down to the stables. Despite my lame leg, I managed to climb up into the window sill where I was safely hidden by the hay stacks. I reached into my quiver and pulled out a potion-stained arrow. I took aim and the second that Guinevere appeared at the entrance, I released the arrow, which soared down and embedded itself in Lancelot's butt (even I have a sense of humor). He yelped in pain and spun around to ascertain from which direction the attack had come, but the only person he saw was Guinevere. I quickly hopped down from my position in the window and staggered away.

So that left only Tristan yet to be attached, and to be perfectly honest, I was not at all looking forward to the challenge. I wondered if he was capable of love even with Merlin's ridiculous potion. I supposed I was about to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

Wow, thanks everyone for all the positive comments! I'll try to keep updating as quickly as possible, but next week might get a little hectic (stupid finals). Anyways here's the next chapter.

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It was already mid-afternoon and still I had gotten nothing accomplished. My morning had been spent at Hadrian's Wall trying to find a viable mate for that damn antisocial scout, and believe me, it was not an easy task. Why couldn't he be like the other knights and actually take a bloody interest in the opposite sex?

Instead, he stalked around the fort like a wolf in the night, skulking through the shadows, observing, never participating. He probably thought it made him appear dangerous and intimidating, but I saw through that. Tristan was no better than Lancelot, just putting on a show to prove something about himself. That's how all of us are, really.

Tristan was even more antisocial than usual lately, a state for which I knew I was partly to blame. The only people he ever came close to engaging with were the knights and thanks to my scheming, they had been otherwise occupied as of late. Every day, Gawain and Anna would take long walks in the meadows---before something else started taking a walk in another meadow. Galahad and Eleanor could generally be found romping around in the hay stacks of the stables---riding each other instead of the horses. Bors and Vanora went pretty much anywhere---and tried to remember what number came after eleven. Arthur and Guinevere would wander off to a secluded location to play sword in the stone, though it was never secluded enough because Lancelot always managed to secretly make himself their audience while giving his own sword a vigorous polishing. He was one sick bastard.

Anyways, that left poor, single Tristan all to himself, though he seemed not to mind too terribly much. Nevertheless, I had to find him someone soon, mostly because I just wanted the job to finally be over and done with. All this love business was incredibly tiring and I could not understand why people had such affinities for it. Finding the right person for Tristan seemed anything but hopeful, seeing as he had, in my opinion, too little of a personality with which to even attempt to match compatibility. The stoic scout wasn't much help either, as he appeared completely indifferent to every female he crossed paths with. I wished I could figure out what went on in that dark head of his, but until that happened I could not with a clear conscience wish that downhearted outcast on even my worst enemy. I pitied any woman who might take him as a lover. I could just picture the happy couple with their apple orchard and nest of baby hawks.

No, Tristan was a killer and would always be a killer---plain and simple. I had to admit he earned a tiny amount of respect from me for that, despite the fact that it was making my task nearly impossible. I had spent all morning at the Wall thinking about who I should condemn to be his lover when finally I threw my hands up in the air and simply gave up. I decided that it really didn't matter anyway. I would just shoot him with the damn arrow and let him fall for the first woman he laid eyes on. If the woman turned out to be a pock-marked old grandmother, so be it. I'd hit her with the potion-stained arrow as well and soon the scout and unfortunate soul would be permanently attached. I just hoped none of the female members of Bors' clan of bastards would be the first to catch his sight. That could be disastrous---but I was willing to take my chances.

Later in the morning while I was still at the Wall, Arthur had ordered Tristan to scout out the woods for any possible threats. I couldn't help but find the situation a bit humorous. The incident of the arrow in Lancelot's buttocks had been shrugged off as a harmless prank, but the anonymous attack on the defenseless maiden Anna could not be so easily forgotten, particularly by her new found protector, Gawain. It was therefore decided that Tristan should head out into the forest in order to detect any possible assailants that might be lurking in the trees.

I decided to venture off into the forest myself to see if any opportunities of infecting Tristan with the potion would present themselves. I limped along the forest floor with that cursed lame leg of mine for a good long while until I became fatigued and stopped by the lake to get a drink of water. I looked down at my reflection, but as usual I did not recognize myself. The Unspeakable had altered me from the inside out. If you had asked me what exactly was different about my appearance, I honestly could not have told you. But something had changed. I felt the pendant hanging around my neck that He had given me and quickly willed those thoughts to the outer fringes of my mind. There was no need to go back _there_.

Fortunately, at that moment, the rustling of footsteps interrupted my train of thought and provided a much appreciated distraction. I peered out from behind a tree to find the diligent scout advancing through the woods and carefully studying his surroundings. Well, granted, he must not have been studying his surroundings _too _carefully since I managed to evade his perception.

In yet another turn of good fortune, I noticed a small group of Woad women congregated in a clearing just ahead. Everything was falling into place and though I did not believe in fate, I could not help but feel that a no more perfect opportunity could have presented itself. I drew my bow from where it had rested around my shoulder and retrieved a potion-stained arrow from my quiver. I drew back the arrow and took aim at the scout's thigh, hoping to incapacitate him enough that one of Woad women would be required to come to his aid, receiving in thanks an arrow wound of her own. They would then nurse each other back to health, fall deeply in love, and I would be free of this romantic nonsense once and for all.

I was about to release the arrow when a sharp spasm ran up my defective leg, as was known to happen from time to time. I winced involuntarily, more from the suddenness than from the pain, and closed my eyes for the briefest of seconds. When I opened my eyes, however, the scout was nowhere in sight. My heart stopped, petrified, and I could scarcely take air into my lungs. Suddenly, a body flew from out of nowhere and rammed into my side, sending me crashing to the ground and sending my previously poised arrow straight up into the heavens.

It was his dark tousled hair that I conceived first, those queer-looking braids of his brushing across my face as his weight pressed my body to the ground. I struggled beneath him, writhing this way and that until finally I managed to knee him in the crotch with my good leg, sending him rolling and groaning to the ground next to me.

Doesn't it figure that whenever my luck runs out, it _really _runs out? Just as I managed to push the scout's body off from on top of mine, the arrow that I had let slip into the sky came zipping back down, embedding itself in my shoulder. My body tensed and I gasped at the sudden penetration that shot pain down my entire arm and throughout my chest.

Once the initial shock of the injury wore off, I quickly sprang into reparation mode. I wrapped my fingers around the end of the arrow that protruded from my shoulder and gave a forceful tug, pulling the bolt from my flesh. I won't pretend that it was painless. On the contrary, it hurt like hell---but I was all too familiar with pain and it no longer affected me so much. I had suffered through much worse than an arrow wound during the Unspeakable.

It wasn't until I had torn a piece of cloth from my shirt to make an impromptu bandage, that I remembered the scout's presence. The muscles of his face were tense and fierce, his almond eyes penetrating me deeper than the arrow had. He stood over me menacingly and I noticed that he had drawn his sword, daring me to try to make a run for it. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction, though. I nonchalantly began wrapping the cloth tightly around my blood-stained shoulder, letting him know that his presence did not intimidate me.

After I had finished my handiwork, I got to my feet and looked at him severely. "What the hell do you think you're doing jumping on people like that?" I demanded.

His expression did not change. "What the hell are you doing shooting arrows at people?" he asked.

I rubbed my shoulder and looked at him disdainfully. "As far as I can tell, I'm the only one who's been hit with an arrow," I said bitterly, "So it's really none of your business."

With that, I tried to turn and walk away, but before I could take another step, I had a curved sword at my throat. "Why do you want me dead?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"You are obviously mistaken," I replied firmly, "I don't want you dead."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow that told me he didn't believe me. "I saw you with your bow," he said in his no-nonsense tone, "You were aiming at _me_."

"Yes," I affirmed, "but I wasn't trying to _kill _you."

This clearly made no sense to him. "Then what were you trying to do?"

"Well, I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"It's too complicated."

"Try."

"No."

We had reached a stalemate, and it was clear that neither of us were willing to bend. Instead, we simply stood there, staring indignantly at each other. That was when I first became aware of my stomach twisting itself into knots and the warm blood coursing through my veins. I had never felt such a strange sensation. The throbbing pain in my shoulder, however, quickly slapped me in the face with the sudden realization that I had accidentally poisoned myself with Merlin's concoction!

I looked warily over at Tristan, my heart quivering in my chest. For the first time I noticed his height---he was tall; lean, but strong. His eyes flickered with specks of gold behind the vagrant strands of hair that fell across his brow. If that were not torture enough, he slid his tongue along his lips to moisten them against the dry air. Cruel, cruel man! I felt the sudden urge to leap on top of him as he had done to me but moments ago. I wanted to feel my body once again pressed against his chiseled frame. My head felt light and dizzy, my cheeks hot and flushed. Why had I suddenly forgotten how to breathe?

My state of sheer panic was fortunately interrupted as he let out an exasperated sigh. His face remained as stoic and calm as ever, though, as he said, "Well, I can't wait around here forever, so you can either start explaining or I can just get on with killing you."

He was bluffing. I knew he was bluffing---but then his sword started to dig deeper into the skin on my neck, and I wasn't so sure anymore. "No! Stop! Please!" I cried desperately, as a drop of blood trickled down my neck.

"Tell me," he ordered.

What could I do? I began rambling nonsensically, "Merlin told me that I have to find lovers for all of Arthur's knights---I don't know why. He's just a crazy, meddling old man, and he thinks things will be better if all the knights are settled down---and you're the only one left---and there's a group of women just over there in that clearing---and I thought if you were wounded---not severely or mortally or anything, but just a little wounded---that they could come to your aid---and then maybe you might like one of them---" And so I strung phrase after ridiculous phrase together in an explanation so unconvincing that by the end, I was starting to doubt it myself. Upon reflection, I realized that I had been careful to leave out the minor detail that Merlin's potion happened to be the key ingredient to inducing the attraction and, more importantly, the love that I had been assigned to produce. I could not very well disclose that part of the plan to Tristan, though. He would then surely ascertain that I had accidentally contaminated myself with the potion, that my head went fuzzy every time our eyes met, and that I was now permanently under his spell. I would be forever humiliated!

To my utmost dismay, however, the absurdity of my story did not seem phase Tristan in the slightest. He listened very intently to everything I said and when I was finished, replied seriously, "So it was you who shot the maiden by the lake?"

"Yes," I said softly, unable to make eye contact.

"And you shot her with an arrow to make her fall in love with Gawain?"

"Yes---so that he would rescue her, and they would fall in love."

"And just now you wanted to shoot me with an arrow so I would fall in love with a Woad girl?"

"Yes."

He removed his sword from my neck and I exhaled with relief. "Well, don't do it again," he said with a shade of rebuke in his voice. I couldn't believe it. '_That's it?_' I thought, '_Don't do it again?'_ Tristan's eyes drifted over to the jar of Merlin's potion that lay next to my bow by the tree. "What's that?" he asked.

"Nothing…" I answered, trying to sound as innocent as possible, "Just Woad war paint. I'm sure you've seen it before."

He gave me a scrutinizing look, and there was something in his eyes that told me he saw right through my lies. To my relief, he did not press me further, however, and simply said, "You shouldn't meddle in other people's affairs."

"It's not like I have a choice about it!" I cried in protest, offended by his superior attitude, "I have my orders." And if this wasn't enough to convince him, I spat, "You should know all about carrying out commands against your will."

That was a low blow, reminding him of his previously forced service to Rome, but I didn't care. Nothing could get a rise out of that man. He looked at me with his usual indifference and said, "Nevertheless, my concerns, romantic or otherwise, are my own and no one else's. I don't want your help."

My heart sank at the sting of rejection, but I found myself blurting out, "You may not want it, but you clearly need it."

"I'm well enough off on my own, thank you," he replied mockingly, "I have no desire to form any attachments."

Oh, harsh, scathing words! I wanted to beg him, plead with him, to want me---to love _me_. But I knew that it was just Merlin's potion making me think these things. This was terribly inconvenient. I didn't feel that way really, not truly deep down inside of me. I had to resist the urges that my poisoned blood was fueling. I couldn't let that damn concoction gain power over my free will. I was stronger than that.

I watched as Tristan put his sword back in its scabbard and whistled for his horse, apparently satisfied that I wasn't trying to kill him and that he need not remain any longer. I decided that nothing had changed, really, except that I would have to be extra discreet in my next attempt to infect him with the potion. My unfortunate blunder would not alter my plans. Tristan would have his fair maiden yet, and I would just have to learn to forget him in time.

I staggered over to where my bow lay, and slung it over my shoulder. I blushed at the realization that Tristan had seen my limp. "Did I hurt you?" he asked with a concern that seemed almost sincere.

"What?" I asked, confused at first, then realizing what he meant, added, "No, no. It was like that before---not always, but---before."

"Oh," was all that he said. I felt angry---angry that he had brought up my leg, angry that he had reminded me of the Unspeakable. I wanted him to go away. I wanted to be alone.

"Who are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Kira," I answered, "And you're Tristan." I tried not to blush as I said his name.

"Yes," he said, and there was an awkward silence until he asked abruptly, "So you could really find someone to be my lover?"

Now he was just humoring me because he felt sorry for me. I hated that. Just because I had a lame leg did not make me completely pitiful. Nevertheless, I replied, "Yes, I could."

He paused for a moment with a thoughtful look on his face. "Alright," he said, "But I want to be involved in the arrangement. No more of this sneaking around and scheming behind my back."

"I'll let you pick whoever you want," I offered. At least that would save me the trouble of having to finding someone for him.

"Whoever I want?" he repeated skeptically, "You think you can make anyone fall in love with me?"

"Yes, I know I can," I replied confidently, though it broke my heart to think of it.

"Okay, then. Prove it," he dared.

And that's exactly what I intended to do. I would prove to that stubborn scout that I could make any maiden fall at his feet with amour. I would prove to myself that I could conquer the raging desires of my heart that Merlin's potion had produced. I would prove that _I _could never fall victim to such synthetic love.


	3. Chapter 3

Then again, perhaps I was being too hasty in dooming myself to ceaseless infatuation with the scout. The thought suddenly came to me that perhaps Merlin had some antidote, some counteractant, for that heinous love potion of his. Surely he must! Certainly I had been worrying over nothing. All would undoubtedly set itself right. I would go see Merlin immediately and sort everything out.

At this time, Tristan led his horse over to where I was standing and reached out his hand to help me into the saddle. I instinctively backed away from him and shook my head politely in refusal. He would not tempt _me _with his chivalry.

"You haven't changed your mind, have you?" he taunted, raising an eyebrow at me.

"No, no," I replied, "Don't worry, you'll have your maiden. I just have an errand I must attend to first. Wait for me in the tavern at the Wall."

I turned and began to hobble away when I heard his voice again. "Why don't you let me take you?" he offered, looking warily down at my leg. Could he be any more transparent?

"No, I must go alone. And besides, I don't need your pity," I reviled, picking up my pace to prove that I wasn't a complete invalid.

"Then don't take my pity," he replied, "but at least consider taking my horse."

He was presently walking beside me, taking one easy stride for every three of my laborious shuffles. We kept this up for awhile until I finally stopped and let out a sigh of defeat, accepting the reigns that he so kindly held out to me. I nodded my thanks and reached my hands up to the saddle. I had dared not even try to mount a horse since the Unspeakable happened and now I remembered why. I simply could not steady myself on my lame leg long enough to set my good foot into the stirrup and swing my other leg over the top of the horse's back. I tried multiple times to lift myself into the saddle, but each time only brought miserable failure. Tristan was no help either as he just stood there observing me with his hands crossed nonchalantly over his chest.

"It's no use," I relented in frustration, "I can't do it on my own."

"Now you're just pitying yourself," he said in that superior tone of his. He strode over next to me, reaching up and gripping the saddle firmly in his hands. Oh, to be a horse's saddle! "Hold on just like so," he instructed, "And support your weight with your arms until your foot is securely in the stirrup. Then swing your other leg over."

What had he said? I couldn't concentrate. He smelled of leather and pine---pine---I pined for him with his rough hands that glided across the horse's saddle and back down to rest at his sides. '_Snap out of it!_' I ordered myself. With new found determination, I gripped the saddle exactly where his hands had been and did as he instructed, letting my arms bear my weight while I slipped my foot into the stirrup. I ignored the pain in my shoulder from the fresh arrow wound that only grew worse from the tension in my muscles. Before I knew it, however, I had managed to swing my crippled leg up over the back of the horse. I sat proudly in the saddle, smiling despite myself.

I looked back down at Tristan to find him holding my bow, quiver, and jar of Merlin's potion. I reached out for him to hand them to me, but he shook his head in refusal. "No, no," he said, "I want to be sure I get my horse back. You can retrieve these when you meet me at the tavern." What the hell kind of man offers you his horse, but doesn't trust you to bring it back?

"A little possessive, aren't we?" I scoffed.

"He's a good horse," Tristan shrugged, patting the steed's neck.

I hesitated for a moment, biting my lower lip. "Let me have the jar," I implored of him, "It is not mine, and my errand is to go now to return it."

'_A likely story_,' I thought to myself, '_He can have no objections to that._' Tristan looked at me skeptically and seemed to be thinking it over. I let out an exasperated sigh, "Look, why would I want to keep a horse that I can barely mount on my own? Besides, you're the one who offered it to me in the first place. If you're so worried about my taking it, I'll just walk like I intended to do all along."

This seemed to convince him, and he begrudgingly surrendered the jar to me. With the potion now secure, I urged the horse forward into the woods. "You better bring him back!" Tristan called after me. I waved to him over my shoulder dismissively. Insufferable man!

I rode further into the woods until I reached the campground of my father, who came out to meet me with hugs and smiles. We exchanged the usual greetings and inquiries of "how are you" and "damn this British weather" before we settled into the more pertinent topic at hand. He asked me how my assignment was going, and I informed him that it was all but complete except for finding a woman for Tristan. Merlin seemed pleased with this and nodded his head in approval at which point I found it best to bring up the reason for my visit.

"Out of curiosity," I asked, trying to sound as casual and unconcerned as possible, "Is there any way to reverse the effects of the drug?"

"Of course not," he replied proudly without hesitation, "The effects are incurable and permanent."

This was not the answer I had wanted to hear. "But what if someone is infected and they do not want to love the other person?" I persisted, "Surely there must be something that could be done."

"Love is unconquerable, Kira," he sang, "Even by death."

"That's _true _love, father," I contended, annoyed with how this conversation was playing out, "What you have concocted is completely artificial. There is nothing real or true about it!"

"Listen, Kira," said Merlin seriously, "I can only assume that you have Lancelot in mind with these concerns---"

"Oh, right," I muttered, "Lancelot. Yes, that's who I was thinking of."

"---and I don't want you having any second thoughts about any of this," he warned, "What's done is done."

"Yeah, well, I gathered as much," I grumbled. Oh cruel fates, what had I done? What had I gotten myself into?

"Do you happen to have any of the potion on hand?" Merlin inquired.

"Of course," I said, retrieving the jar and handing it to him, "Why?"

"I would like some for myself," he replied truthfully, "Your mother has been dead nearly ten years now, and I have decided it would be most advantageous if I were to fall in love with Palani's sister Gerianne."

"The one with the big ears?" I asked, trying not to laugh, "I daresay you _will _need the potion for that."

"Her ears are not big!" Merlin protested, "The rest of her facial features are just small." He took what amount of the potion he wanted from the jar and handed it back to me.

"You know, she can hear things from a mile away," I maintained, "with those big ears of hers."

"Kira, hush!" scolded Merlin.

"Ah ha!" I exclaimed, "See, you are afraid that she is listening right now."

Merlin looked at me sternly for a moment, a meaningless punishment, but then shooed me away, reminding me that I still had one match yet to make. As if I needed the reminder! Thoughts of Tristan shot through my mind like arrows, unsympathetically and relentlessly puncturing what hold I had left on reality.

-----------------------

I had never put much stock in physical appearance. It seemed to me that the less attractive or beautiful you were, the more people left you alone, and that was fine by me. As I approached the tavern after returning Tristan's horse to the stables, however, I found myself suddenly very consciously aware of my looks. Was my face dirty? Were my clothes flattering to my form? Was my hair disheveled? I fretted with the loose strands that fell across my face, smoothing them behind my ears. When I was satisfied that my hair had been tamed, I began fiddling anxiously with chain that held the pendant He had given me just after the Unspeakable. But this was no time to think of _that._

I felt nervous, antsy, excited, and sick to my stomach. I hoped I wouldn't throw up. It was very nice of Tristan to loan me his horse. I wonder if he---NO. I could _not _start entertaining such impossibilities. If I intended to keep any semblance of sanity, I had to apprehend that Tristan could never and would never be anything more to me than an unpleasant assignment that at least would soon be completed.

Now that I had that disagreeable business cleared up, I made my way to the tavern that, as always at this time of evening, was filled with knights and Woads and women and anyone else with a few coins to spare on a mug of alcohol. At a table in the far corner, Anna sat contentedly tucked under Gawain's brawny arm, as he playfully nuzzled his stubbly cheek into her silky hair. Galahad balanced the high-spirited Eleanor on his knee, blushing at the naughty words she whispered in his ear. Next to them sat the solitary scout, interested only in that his apple was cut into equally proportioned slices. It was a pitiful sight.

I limped over to their table and took a seat next to Tristan, unnoticed by his otherwise occupied companions. "Did you bring my horse back?" he muttered, not looking up from his apple.

"What horse?" I asked as if I had no idea what he was talking about. His head shot up in alarm, his pupils dilating with trepidation while his fingers tightened around his dagger. I shook my head at him and laughed. "Take it easy," I teased, "He's fine. He's in the stables. You can go check if you want."

Tristan's muscles relaxed, as he leaned back in his chair. "That won't be necessary," he said, slicing off another piece of his apple.

I noticed my bow and quiver placed against the wall behind his chair and nodded to him in acknowledgement. We sat there in awkward silence for what seemed like an eternity until I finally managed to find my voice and asked, "So have you picked out any candidates yet?"

"You mean women?" he asked.

"Well, yes," I replied, "Unless men are your thing, in which case---"

"No," he interrupted quickly, "They are not."

"Alright," I said, "I mean, I wasn't sure."

"You _weren't sure_?"

"Well, what with the hair braiding and all…"

"What's wrong with my braids?"

"Uhhh…nothing." I smiled innocently. "So," I said, deciding it was best to change the subject, "The choice is yours, just like we agreed. Have you picked anyone out?"

Tristan sighed, putting down his apple and dagger and scanning the crowd. The tavern was filled with all kinds of women: short and tall, shy and extroverted, blondes, brunettes, and redheads. Tristan's eyes, however, landed on the biggest pair of breasts I had ever seen, bobbing up and down as their owner sauntered over to an empty table. "What about her?" Tristan asked.

'_Pig!_' I wanted to shout, but I had after all promised him any woman, so instead I simply said, "If that's what you want."

"Alright," he said, "So instruct me, ambassador of hearts, what should I do?"

"Well," I replied, "For starters you could go buy her a drink."

"And then?"

"Oh, I don't know!" I retorted, occupied with my own thoughts of how I would go about infecting them both with the potion, "Talk to her, get to know her---do whatever it is you people do."

"And where do you come in?"

"Me?"

"Well, I seem to be the only one doing any of work here," he complained, "How do you plan to get her to fall in love with me?"

"Oh, don't you worry yourself about that," I reassured him, "You just concentrate on not scaring her away with your queer braids."

He frowned, and I returned his grimace with a devilish grin. He then drew in a deep breath as if trying to work up the courage to approach the woman. Uncertainty was actually a rather flattering shade on him, I decided. He finally managed to rise to his feet and headed over to where the majestic lady sat in all her voluptuousness.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked in his mumbled manner of speaking.

Her eyes traveled lustfully up and down his body. That wench! "It is now," she said huskily, gesturing for him to sit down.

He nodded graciously to her, taking a seat and calling over the bar maid to order them both drinks. Once this was accomplished, he turned his attention back to his companion and asked, "What is your name?"

"Rosaleen," she said through her supple, pouting lips. Whore!

"That's a pretty name," Tristan replied. Bastard! The bar maid returned with their drinks, which they both began to sip casually.

"Thank you," she said, "Actually, some people call me Rosalee or just Rosa or some people even call me Ro!" She giggled, sending her bosom a-bouncing once again. Nitwit.

"I'm Tristan," he said, obviously trying hard to keep his eyes level with hers. Ass.

"Just Tristan?" she asked playfully, "Not Tris or Tri? Oh! We could call you Tri! How delightful! If only there were more of you, we could have our own forest." At this remark, she began squealing hysterically, her breasts flying this way and that. How they managed to stay contained in that dress of hers, I will never know.

"No," he replied dryly, "I go by Tristan." Good man.

"Listen, Tristan," said Rosalee confidentially, leaning over towards him so that little was left unrevealed, "I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me." SLUT!

Tristan gulped, no longer able to resist her bosom's magnetic pull. His eyes dropped down to her cleavage, unable to look away. "Sure," he croaked hoarsely, "Ask me anything." JERK!

Rosaleen leaned back in her seat with a satisfied smile and asked, "Do you think my lover throws a good punch?"

Out of nowhere a fist flew, slamming into Tristan's jaw and knocking him out of his chair. He fell to the ground with a loud thump, but quickly recovered himself, springing back to his feet. Rosaleen's lover was a stocky brute who stood a good head taller than Tristan, but the scout did not appear intimidated. He casually brushed the dirt off his sleeves, and for a moment, I thought he might walk away.

But I was wrong. Tristan unexpectedly flew at the man, knocking him down to the floor and began throwing punches left and right. Rosaleen covered her face with her hands, shrieking and wailing like a madwoman. Thankfully, Galahad and Gawain rushed to the scene, pulling Tristan off the poor, battered beast. I staggered quickly after them, hoping to help in any way I could.

Once Tristan was back on his feet, calm and composed, and it was certain there would be no more violent outbursts, I took his wrist and led him over to a deserted corner, away from all the commotion. Galahad and Gawain each issued me puzzled looks, but were soon enough distracted by their concerned lovers, wanting to know what was going on.

"Vile woman!" Tristan muttered under his breath, wiping the blood from his lip, "Why didn't she tell me she was spoken for?"

'_Because she's a whore!' _I wanted to answer, but instead I shook my head sympathetically and said, "I don't know. Some women just like the attention."

"Well she certainly got it," he replied bitterly.

"Don't worry," I said consolingly, "Next time we'll find you someone better."

"Oh, no," he said, shaking his head, "There won't be a next time. You had your chance."

"Yes there will," I insisted, "We just need to find you someone more compatible to you, someone who you have shared interests with. I have an idea."

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Ok, so, I feel like I kind of strayed from Tristan's character in this chapter and I'm a bit dissatisfied with it, but remember this is from Kira's perspective, so it's not necessarily objective. Hopefully, the next chapter will clear some stuff up.


	4. Chapter 4

Ok, in this chapter Tristan explains himself---and hopefully gets back into character. I hope. Please let me know because I am struggling here. :P

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I learned a valuable lesson that night: all men are shallow, even Tristan. I was still rather in shock over the whole affair. I had been watching Tristan for awhile now since my assignment began, and I never would have taken him as the superficial kind, but I suppose that just came along with his being male. Actually, it was a bit of a relief from my infatuation to have something specific to dislike about him besides the fact that he was always so somber. In fact, I had almost hoped that he would choose poorly just to prove once and for all that he was not worthy of my fixation. Maybe I could overcome this love thing after all.

There was no time to waste on such petty concerns, however, as I was presently scrambling around the fort trying to find where said scout had run off to. I had a brilliant idea for our next attempt at finding him a mate and I knew he would be pleased with it. After much unsuccessful searching, I finally happened upon him in the stables, sitting up on one of the lofts cleaning and sharpening his sword.

"Hey!" I called up to him, "I've been looking all over for you."

"Oh?" Tristan replied indifferently, sliding a cloth down his curved blade.

"Yes," I said, "I want to show you what I have in mind next to make a match for you. I think you're really going to like it. It's---well it's genius, if I may say so myself. Now, you must hurry. We don't have all day."

"I thought I told you there wasn't going to be a next time," he said coolly. It was like he was the horse and I was the annoying fly. I sensed something cold in his manner that I could not quite account for.

"And then I said that I had an idea," I reminded him, ignoring his icy tone, "Trust me, you'll be pleased with this."

He let out an exasperated sigh and looked at me square in the eyes. "Listen girl, I played along with your little game last night," he said condescendingly, "but today I am otherwise occupied. Some of us have more important things to attend to than match-making."

His words hit me like a slap in the face and I was personally about fed up with his sour attitude. "First of all," I said forcefully, "It's Kira, not 'girl.' Second of all, I'm not to blame because you chose poorly, so I deserve another chance when you're thinking with your heart and not your dick."

"What was that?" he snapped with indignation.

"You heard me," I reviled, "What happened last night was your own fault, and now you're just bitter about it. There's more to a woman than breasts, Tristan. The sooner you figure that out, the better off you'll be."

"So that's what you think of me, is it? Well, I happen not to care about _any _part of a woman," he said defensively, but earnestly, "You think I was amused by that woman last night, Rosa-whatever-her-name-was? She was a blithering idiot, a typical female, and I was an idiot for thinking she or any other woman would ever satisfy me. I was only humoring a poor, crippled girl who needs to find something more fulfilling to do with her life." The fly had been whacked by the horse's tail.

"Please!" I protested in disbelief, "You were satisfied enough with that chest of hers! You couldn't take your eyes off it! It was sickening. I had thought better of you, Tristan."

"It seems to me that the only one fascinated by her chest is you," he replied, "since you're the one who brought it up in the first place and can't let it go. I had hardly noticed it till she shoved it in my face. I practically choked on my drink, she was so forward. What's really sickening is your jealousy over someone so completely unworthy of your attention."

What? Could he be telling the truth? Had I just been imagining his superficiality out of my own insecurities? Had I only _wanted _him to be shallow? "Then why did you choose her?" I asked skeptically.

"Because you told me to pick someone," he replied simply with a shrug of his shoulders, "And because she was alone. It's rare for a woman to be alone. You should know a little something about that."

Well, now what did he mean by _that? _I was not always alone. Alright so maybe I was, but it didn't matter because now that I thought about it, he was right. All the other women in the tavern, the tall, short, blonds, brunnettes---all of them, had been surrounded by intoxicated men vying for their attentions. Why hadn't I seen that before? Rosaleen had stridden into the tavern _alone _and had taken a seat at at an _empty _table. His eyes had been struggling to maintain an interest in her babbling, not to resist looking at her neckline. I had been so very wrong, so very mistaken. Tristan had been motivated by sympathy (for me and for her), not by lust. Now _there _was the man I lo---DAMNIT.

Still, I could not account for his current sullenness and complete lack of cooperation. Last night he had been more than compliant, perhaps even eager as far as enthusiasm for Tristan went. "I just don't understand why you're backing out on our agreement," I said disappointedly, "Last night you were at least willing to try for my sake, but today you are being completely stubborn and incorrigible."

"Last night, I was reminded why I do not bother with attachment," he replied, not bitterly, but with solemnity, "Killing is simple. You do it and it is done. Love is not simple, Kira. It is not easy. You do not just walk up to a woman in a tavern and begin a relationship."

"Oh, but you can!" I exclaimed, "With my help, you can! You don't know what I'm capable of, but believe me, all you have to do is choose the right woman and I will put it all into motion."

Tristan stared blankly at me, and I knew he must have thought I was insane. "You really need to find something better to do with your time," he muttered. I was the fly again.

"Come on," I pleaded, "Just give me another chance."

He sat there in silence not answering my question, and for a moment, I had almost given up all hope. "Fine," he finally relented with a sigh, "What is this brilliant idea you have?"

And so I rethought my previous conclusion. Not all men were shallow, but certainly they were bloody confusing as hell.

--------------------------------

The air was cool with winter quickly approaching, but the sun was shining so that it was an otherwise nice day. I was leading Tristan just outside the Wall to a nearby Woad camp where I knew there would be women out practicing their archery and sword fighting. If that couldn't spark his interest, I didn't know what would.

I felt badly that Tristan had to slow his pace so significantly to keep up with my pathetic shuffling, but he didn't seem to mind. I wondered if he meant what he had said about only humoring a poor, crippled girl.

"So," he said out of nowhere, "Why does Merlin want you to find lovers for all the knights anyway?" It wasn't like Tristan to talk for the sake of conversation. Perhaps he was trying to make amends.

"I'm really not sure," I admitted, "Though if I were forced to make a guess, I would say that now that Britain is a free country, he wants to make sure that everyone in it is as content as possible. Plus, I think he misses my mother."

"Merlin is your father then?"

"Yes."

"Oh," he said, "And your mother is---"

"Dead," I replied, finishing his sentence, "For quite a long time now."

"I'm sorry," he said sympathetically.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I would say that it's not your fault, but you did fight for the Romans, after all," I mused, "So instead I'll just say not to worry. It was a long time ago."

Tristan took my comment more seriously than I intended, though, and said gloomily, "Nevertheless, I _am _sorry."

I smiled. "You are also very serious," I teased, "You need to lighten up."

We reached the Woad camp where various female warriors were spread out across the field for combat training. I glanced over at Tristan with a smug look of self-satisfaction. He rolled his eyes at me. "This is ridiculous," he said.

"Hey, I told you I would find you someone with common interests," I returned defensively, "Since you seem to only concern yourself with fighting, I figured this was our best option."

At that moment, we were interrupted by a sprightly, dark haired woman painted in blue who bounded over to us with her wooden practice sword in hand. I think that she recognized me as Merlin's daughter because she nodded respectfully in my direction. She then turned quickly to Tristan, however, and said, "You're a Sarmatian knight, aren't you?"

"Yes," he replied indifferently as if to say, '_So what?_'

She smiled to show him that she was impressed, but there was a strange spark in her eye that I could not quite place. "Will you fight me?" she asked, "We just use these wooden practice swords, but I've never fought a Sarmatian before."

"Oh," replied Tristan, "I'm not here to fight."

"Please?" she coaxed, looking up at him pleadingly "You would do me such an honor."

"Yes, yes, certainly he will fight you!" I interjected before Tristan had the chance to refuse again, "Won't you, Tristan?"

"I'd really rather---"

"Of course you will!" I exclaimed. "Do you have a practice sword he can borrow?" I asked, turning back to the Woad woman.

"Certainly," she said politely; then addressing Tristan, "Just follow me. I'm Brianna, by the way."

"Tristan," he returned, reluctantly following behind her. He glanced back at me with a scowl, expressing his displeasure at my manipulation. He would be thanking me later, though, I was sure.

Brianna fitted Tristan with a practice sword and led him out onto the field. Tristan seemed hesitant in the beginning, as he did not normally train with women, but Brianna was tall and strong and surprisingly made a rather formidable opponent. She was graceful with her sword, though I dare say not quite as graceful as Tristan who swept his sword with such fluid motions that I thought it closer to dancing than fighting.

At first, they simply circled each other, taking occasional swings just to test the other's abilities. Once they had assessed each other's skills, however, the fight quickly escalated to a series of strikes and parries. I knew that Tristan was going easy on her, but I could also tell that he was impressed with her adeptness and agility. They were magnificent together. I watched in awe as they slashed, stabbed, and swung with their wooden swords in that strange harmony of clashing discordance.

That should have been me out there. I found my fingers fumbling with the pendant He had given me, and I had to fight back thoughts of the Unspeakable. I used to be such a warrior as Brianna.

I used to slice through my enemies with such irrepressible terror until…

I used to soar across the battlefield with such fervor and intensity and rampage until…

I used to fight for such admirable causes as freedom until…

It was no use. What had happened was Unspeakable.

Tristan had knocked Brianna's sword from her hands, marking him the victor of their duel. "You are very good," he complimented, which was high praise from Tristan.

"Thank you," she replied, grinning broadly, "I suppose it would be meaningless to say that you are quite good as well."

"Perhaps," he said, allowing her the faintest of smiles despite himself, "but it is always pleasing to hear."

Brianna laughed and they stood there uncertainly for a moment, which was my cue to start working my magic. I quickly staggered over to them, interposing myself amidst the awkward silence, and said to Brianna, "We were going to head back to the tavern at the Wall. You should come."

Brianna seemed unsure and Tristan shot me a harsh look of discouragement, but I ignored him. "Please," I insisted to her, "You must come."

"Well," replied Brianna after a moment's hesitation, "If Tristan doesn't mind…"

"Of course he doesn't mind!" I assured her, glancing meaningfully at Tristan. He gave me one last scowl and then we were on our way.

Once we reached the tavern, things seemed to get a bit easier. They sat down at a table together, and I conveniently made myself scarce, plotting how I would infect them with the potion. I found a seat in the corner where I could observe them while keeping to the privacy of my own thoughts.

Tristan and Brianna actually seemed to have a lot in common, both being warriors by occupation. Brianna had seen enough of battles to have a firm grip on the reality of war, and I perceived that they had hardened her in much the same way they had hardened Tristan. I felt that I had found Tristan the perfect match---and it broke my heart.

The more Tristan and Brianna drank, the more comfortable they became with each other. They even had their own knife throwing contest, which Tristan, of course, easily won. I would have to advise him at some point on the courtesy of letting the lady win, but for now it seemed not to matter.

They were having such a good time, in fact, that one thing led to another and soon Brianna was leading Tristan by the arm into the alleyway. Tristan was clearly inebriated and was trying without much success to mumble out his resistance. Brianna ignored his objections, however, and began kissing his neck hungrily. Tristan did not respond except to let his hands rest on the small of her back.

I stood safely hidden behind the corner, preparing one of my arrows with Merlin's potion. I would have to shoot the arrow at a tough trajectory, but then again, I was no amateur archer. With the potion now applied to the tip of the arrow, I poised my bow and waited.

Brianna was quickly stripping Tristan of his effects with the skilled efficiency that comes from practice. She had soon unarmed him, discarding his weapons to the ground far out of his reach. Tristan grabbed at her wrists to prevent her from further relieving him of his weaponry and clothing, but he was met only with more forceful lips that explored his neck and face.

"Why don't we go back and get another drink?" he suggested, when he felt her hands wander to his belt.

"Oh, no, I am much too drunk already," she said in a raspy voice, "And this is a night I do not want to forget."

With sudden lucidness, however, she pulled a dagger from her belt and slammed it dangerously up against Tristan's throat. "Just as I will never forget the Britons you and the other knights have killed," she snarled, her eyes flashing with rage.

How could I have been so blind! How could I have let her near him? I should have seen it coming, that spark in her eye, her eagerness to fight him, her battle wearied nature, her eagerness to get him alone. She was a full blooded Woad warrior and had been plotting her revenge, despite the agreement of peace we now had with the knights.

"What are you doing?" Tristan asked, his voice inexplicably calm. Was he afraid of anything?

"I'm going to take your life," she growled bitterly, "in vengeance for the lives you have taken."

Tristan looked over at his weapons strewn across the ground. "You planned this from the beginning," he said more as a statement of fact than as a request for confirmation.

"Yes," she answered anyway.

The muscle in her arm flexed, and I could wait no longer. I quickly aimed my arrow and let it fly. The bolt lodged itself in her side, cracking through her ribs and causing her to cry out in pain. Tristan saw his chance and pulled out the one last dagger he had hidden in his sleeve and plunged it into her chest. No one threatened Tristan's life and got away with it.


	5. Chapter 5

Alright, here we are! Another chapter! This one is...darker than the others, but hopefully it will work. I don't know. This fic is kicking my butt, I think.

Alexandra- Please don't worry. I wasn't insulted at all. I really appreciate everyone being as honest with me as possible because I want to be able to improve this and make it better.

This is the first time that I've ever really struggled with Tristan's character, and it's frustrating because I feel like I know him so well (as weird as that may sound for a fictional character). As I was telling FairMaiden, I feel like the story just might not be working for Tristan's character. I basically had a story in mind and was trying to write Tristan into it when I think I should have kept Tristan's character in mind and then tried to write a story around him. So yeah, thanks to everyone who has stuck with me through this. I'm trying my best and hopefully you guys are enjoying it, even if it is a bit unconventional and even perhaps way off the mark.

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With a face as hard as stone, Tristan watched Brianna's body crumble to ground. She wheezed out her last breaths as he stood over her motionlessly, his chest heaving in and out with his own easy, relaxed breathing. There was no pity, no remorse.

I ran. Or at least I tried to run, willing motion into the collapsed bones of my leg, willing them to support my weight at least until I was a safe distance away. I didn't want Tristan to know I had been the one to shoot the arrow into Brianna's ribs. I didn't want to face him. I didn't want to have to explain. I think deep down I knew that he would figure out that it was me, but for now I just had to run.

Every step shot sharp, excruciating pains up my leg, but my will was stronger than my affliction. I bounded, staggered, stumbled through the back alleys of the fort, wishing only to remain unseen, wishing to be anywhere but where I was. My heart beat rapidly, accelerating faster with each impact of my feet on the rocky floor, until I no longer felt the pain in my leg. I no longer felt my leg at all.

My boot made a harsh, scraping sound as I dragged my limp appendage across the ground behind me. My leg was nothing more than dead weight now, hindering me from continuing any further. Before I knew it, I had stumbled face down to the ground, too tired to move. The pain had returned to my leg, but this time it felt like it was on fire.

I heard the sound of footsteps advancing towards me and looked up to see a pair of worn boots standing directly in front of my face. "Get up," said Tristan stiffly.

I managed to prop myself up into a sitting position, and then the lies started pouring out. "I don't know what happened," I stammered in frantic explanation, "I decided to go for a walk and before I knew it, my leg gave out. It must be the sudden coldness in the air."

He stood staring over me for a moment, his face unreadable. "Let me see," he said finally, more as an order than a request, and stooped down beside me to get a better look. I winced as he took my leg in his hands, prodding at the disfigured bones.

"You over-exerted it," he concluded after a thorough examination. Thank you Healer Tristan! You have illuminated the entire situation for me.

I decided that now was not the best time to provoke him, however, and simply said, "Oh, well, it must have been that long walk to the Woad camp earlier."

"Perhaps," he replied somewhat disinterestedly, probably sensing my dishonesty.

He was now sitting beside me and still had not released my leg from his hands. Instead I felt the pressure of his fingertips massaging my muscles into relaxation and causing my heart to beat faster than it ever had before. I felt so small sitting there beside him, like I could curl myself up and get lost in his sturdy frame. Little did I know that this was where everything would go to hell.

"So," I found myself saying, putting on a light, unaware tone, "How did things go with Brianna?"

"She tried to slit my throat," he replied indifferently, "But you already knew that."

"She what?" I gasped, feigning surprise, "I didn't know! How could I have?"

"Someone shot an arrow in her side just before I killed her," Tristan said, the pressure of his fingers in my leg growing stronger, "The arrow had a blue substance, similar to what you were carrying in that jar."

I swallowed hard as my stomach began to tie itself into knots of anxiety. "That's strange," I replied curiously, "Well, at least she's dead now."

"What's strange," he said, "is your confidence in your ability to make any two people form an attachment for each other." His voice had a menacing undertone, and I was beginning to feel wary. Did he know about the potion?

"Well I've always been a bit pretentious," I jested, trying to cover up my nervousness with humor.

I quickly ascertained that Tristan was not amused, however, because without warning, his grip on my leg tightened and he twisted the limb with a sudden forceful jerk. "You're lying," he accused, his voice dangerously soft as he continued to apply pressure to my twisted leg, "What is it you're capable of, Kira? What is your secret?"

My body tensed as I retreated into the Kira who had experienced the Unspeakable, sustained the Unspeakable, survived the Unspeakable. I breathed in and out heavily, absorbing the pain, relishing the pain. I felt all the warmth evacuate from my body as I let out that terrifying shriek of laughter He had taught me, a cackling laugh that told your enemy they could never break you. "I may have succumbed to your sword at my throat in the forest, but this will not break me," I snarled, my eyes dancing like fiery flames, "I may fear death, but the prospect of pain will never frighten me. Go on. Twist it harder."

The blood seemed to drain from Tristan's face as this was not the response he had been expecting from me. Did he know? Did he see it in me? Did he sense it in me---the Unspeakable? He loosened his grip on my leg and once again began rubbing it gently, methodically. "I shouldn't have done that," he said suddenly with strange calmness, "You're a good person, Kira. But there's more to all of this than you're telling me."

I wasn't listening. The sound of my own laughter, the laughter I had not heard since the Unspeakable, sent tremors through my body. I was trembling and shaking, and I could feel my mind slipping back to a place I could not let it go.

"Kira…" said Tristan, his voice barely audible over the banging of the battering ram against the gates of my memory. His hand was on my slender shoulder now and I knew that he regretted breaking my trust. "Kira," he said, his voice softer now, "I didn't mean it. It's okay. I won't hurt you."

"You can't hurt me," I replied fiercely, "No one can."

He pulled me close to him, and I did not resist. The enemy was in my mind, trying to break down my walls. I heard Tristan's voice again, "What happened to your leg---before?"

"No."

"Did someone do this to you?"

"Don't."

But it was too late, the battering ram had broken through the gate and the army of the Unspeakable came pouring through. I held His pendant in my trembling hands and I remembered…

_Kira wasn't even supposed to be there. She never would have been stationed at the lookout post by the river, except that Baethan, who normally guarded the river bank, wanted to be present the birth of his first child and begged Kira to take over the watch for him. If Kira had not agreed, the Romans would not have taken her. They would not have crept up behind her and struck her over the head, rendering her defenseless. But she did agree, and they did take her. She did not even have a chance to draw her sword._

_The Roman soldiers dragged her struggling, writhing, screaming back to the estate of their master, Tiberius Adonis, who looked on with amusement as they beat her to the brink of unconsciousness. First they kicked her to the ground and beat her with clubs. Then they tied her to a stake and whipped her. When they were tired of it all, the guards hauled Kira's battered body down to the underground dungeon where they threw her into the cold, dark cell that would be her home for the next several months. She shuddered as the soldiers slammed the iron door shut, bolting the lock behind them. _

_Kira lay on the damp stone floor scarcely able to take breath into her lungs because of the pressure that inhaling put on her bruised ribs. A deranged, cackling laugh reverberated against the walls, sending a chill up Kira's spine. She rolled her head to the side to discover a pair of translucent green eyes glowing in the corner, cutting through the thick obscurity and the solid darkness of the prison. The eyes had a meanness in them; not the kind of meanness you are born with, but the kind of meanness that is beaten into you._

_Then there was that laugh, that deranged, cackling laugh, that rang unrelentingly in her ears and would not stop. Soon, Kira's eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could perceive the face to which the laugh and the eyes belonged. He was only a year younger than Kira, but the abuse and neglect he had suffered had stunted his growth so that he looked to be no more than a child, frail and malnourished. _

"_You're going to die here," he sneered in a sing-song voice, "Are you afraid little girl? Are you?"_

_His laughter grew louder and more maniacal, filling the cell with the sound of demons. "Show me your fear, little girl," he taunted, "I want to see it."_

_Kira curled herself into a ball and fell into unconsciousness._

_When Kira awoke, she found herself alone, not knowing if it was day or night. She looked around the cell for the boy, but he was gone. Had she only imagined him? Had he only been a dream? Or perhaps he was an evil spirit, haunting the prison. _

_Just then, the heavy iron door swung open, and a Roman soldier entered, dragging the boy into the cell and depositing him in a heap on the floor. His body was covered with blood and reopened wounds, but he only looked up at the soldier and grinned widely, revealing his missing teeth. _

"_Until tomorrow, then," he called after the guard provokingly, sending his demonic laughter up into the air._

_The guard mumbled something angrily under his breath and then grabbed Kira by the arm, pulling her to her feet and dragging her from the cell. He hauled her off to The Room where he flogged her until there was no skin left on her back. Her screams echoed out into the emptiness with every crack of the whip. But there was no one listening, no one who cared._

_When the session was over, the guard dragged her back to her cell and flung her to the floor, slamming the door behind him. The boy sat waiting for her, laughing his maniacal cackle. "You're not going to make it much longer," he jeered, "You let them get to you, they'll get to you." He snickered, "Yes, they'll get to you."_

_Everyday the guard would come for them, the boy first, then Kira. The boy always came back laughing, and the guard always seemed tired of him, like torturing him was no longer a pleasure, but a chore. How many times must the guard have hauled the boy off to The Room only to be met by that deranged laughter? _

_The Room was a torture chamber filled with devices, machines, and every other Unimaginable thing that could cause pain. The guard would ask Kira questions to which she did not know the answers. It did not matter, though, because he would soon give her the answers. He shouted them in her ears and forced her to spit them back at him. Sometimes he would not even ask her questions, but beat her for the sheer pleasure of it. Other times he would do things so horrible, so Unimaginable that their memories would sink like stones to the bottom of Kira's mind, never to resurface._

_After these things were done, the guard would drag her back to her cell where the boy was always waiting, laughing at her. "Not dead yet, little girl?" he would ask, "Don't worry. You will be soon enough."_

_Sometimes Kira would catch the boy crying in the middle of the night. He kept a silver pendant hidden beneath one of the stones in the floor. When he thought Kira was asleep, he would pull it out and hold it in his bony hands, weeping and rocking himself back and forth until he could cry no more. Kira wanted to feel sorry for him, but she had forgotten how to feel anything at all. Her mind had one focus and that was to numb her body. Only then could she survive._

_One out of every four times, the food served to them was poisoned; not poisoned so as to kill them, but poisoned so as to make them sick and feverish. They had no choice but to eat it, however, because it was the only thing keeping them alive. Kira's flesh had whittled away soon enough so that her bones jutted out from beneath her skin. Still, she did not die._

_In fact, with each passing day she found herself growing stronger, more resigned, and more determined to endure whatever Unimaginable things they did to her. One day, the guard tossed her back into the cell and she rolled over so that her eyes met those of the boy. _

"_Why don't you just die already, little girl?" he taunted, "Eh? Why don't you just die?"_

_Kira looked at him square in the eyes, scowled, and spat blood in his face. The boy howled with laughter at her. "It gets easier, doesn't it?" he asked, suddenly growing very serious._

"_Yes," Kira replied._

_One day, the guard hauled Kira off to The Room and strapped her to a table. She felt something metal clamped onto her leg, but she could not see what it was. She stared up at the ceiling, keeping her eyes fixed on a single spot. It was a game she played. If she could keep her eyes from looking away from that spot, she could pretend the rest of the world did not exist and that nothing that was happening in The Room was really happening. _

_Her eyes did not leave that spot on the wall. She did not see what happened. But she heard it. The crack! snap! POP! of the breaking of the bones in her leg one by one filled her ears along with the shouts of the guard. He wanted her to scream, to cry, to plead for mercy, but instead she laughed. She roared with heinous, psychotic laughter that made the guard's face turn gray. He slammed down on the metal contraption one last time, shattering what few bones were left intact in her leg. She only laughed harder. _

_The guard thrust her back into the cell where the boy waited for her. She turned back and looked up at the guard, smiling viciously from ear to ear. "What?" she ridiculed, "Aren't you going to break my other leg?" _

_The guard slammed the door behind him and Kira howled deliriously with laughter. Her laughter soon turned to tears, however, and she curled herself up into a ball like she had done on the first night. Once the tears began, she could not stop them. She lay on the cold ground, hyperventilating, wishing it would all just end, wishing she would die. Suddenly, she felt the warmth of a little body wrapping itself around her. The boy was holding her in his arms, and together they lay as such, a crumpled heap of entangled bones._

_The next day, the guard came as he always did, first for the boy. Kira sat alone in the cell, waiting for the guard to return for her session in The Room. She knew that she would lose her other leg that day. She wondered how long she could go on like this. She wondered when the end would finally come._

_When the cell door opened, however, the boy stood in the entryway, but he stood alone with blood running down the front of his tattered clothes. "Come on," he hissed, reaching out his hand to her, "We have to go and we have to go NOW."_

"_But---" Kira protested, "The guard!"_

"_I killed him," the boy answered._

"_How?" Kira gasped in disbelief._

"_Like a wolf," said the boy, grinning and showing his remaining blood-stained teeth. _

_Kira looked up at him with reverence, never respecting anyone in her life as she respected him then. She took his hand and he led her from the cell, holding her upright to help her to support her weight. They stumbled through the winding halls of the underground dungeon, hiding in the shadows so as not to be seen._

_Finally, they reached the surface, the daylight blinding them so that they could hardly bear to open their eyes. A harsh, icy breeze tore against their unprotected skin and the snow on the ground bit at their bare feet. They scrambled across the estate grounds, so close to the taste of freedom. The boy practically had to carry the crippled Kira whose leg was still swollen and tender. _

_They had reached the edge of the forest. They had reached it. They were free. So why at that moment did an arrow charge through the air, ripping into the flesh of the boy's back? Why at that moment did the boy fall to the ground? _

_Kira knelt down beside him and held him tightly in her arms. She cradled him helplessly, willing him to live, willing him to keep going. They were so close. He looked up at her with his bright, green eyes and pulled out the silver pendant from inside his rags. _

"_It was my mother's," he whispered, pressing the pendant into her hand, "Leave me. Save yourself. GO!"_

_Kira could hear the shouts of the Roman soldiers in the distance and had no other choice. She crawled frantically into the brush where she would be out of sight---and waited. She watched as the Romans arrived on the scene and circled the dying boy. Tiberius Adonis was among them and stared down at the boy with cold, unfeeling eyes. _

"_Thought you can escape, did you?" Tiberius Adonis growled._

_The boy looked up at him, let out that maniacal laugh, and spat blood in his face. Tiberius Adonis drew his sword and swung, severing the boy's neck. It took everything inside Kira not to cry out. The vibrant blood sprayed across the white snow like red lips on a pale face, curling up in a smile; a deranged, unconquerable smile._

_The soldiers never found Kira. They figured she had gotten away. Instead, she sat hidden in the brush, cradling the silver pendant in her bony hands and rocking back and forth with tears streaming down her face._

_He was so young. He had so much life left to live. If only he hadn't come for her. If only he had escaped on his own. If only he hadn't had to support her weight. If only she hadn't slowed him down. Why couldn't the arrow have struck her down instead? Why did he have to die? Why? _

_Kira swore then that she would never forget him..._

_Kira swore then that he would not have died in vain…_

_Kira swore then that she would avenge him… _

_-------------_

I awoke from my stupor to find Tristan staring deeply into my face as if he could read it. I quickly turned away. Certainly the memories that had just flashed before my eyes had flashed before his as well. Surely he had seen it---the Unspeakable. No doubt my eyes, my face, my trembling hands had betrayed me.

'No,' I told myself, 'that's impossible.' Everything that was Unspeakable to me was Unimaginable to him, and he would never know what We went through.

"Well," I said lightly, putting on a fake smile, "This has been a very silly night---so much drama. I suppose we'll just have to try again tomorrow to find you a lover. Hopefully this one won't try to kill you."

I did not wait for his answer, but quickly scrambled to my feet and staggered away to cry my tears in private.


	6. Chapter 6

Ok, Kira gets a bit manipulative in this chapter, but hopefully she is still likable. I just wanted to thank everyone again for your comments both good and bad. I really appreciate your honesty and I hope that I'm able to make improvements to the story as I go. So yeah, thanks:)

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Nabelie was everything a young woman should be. She was sweet-natured, beautiful, and unaffected by the war that had raged all around her since birth. Her father was a good man who owned a fruit market at Hadrian's Wall. That's how she knew Tristan. Well, she did not really _know _Tristan except that everyday he came and bought one ripe green apple from her father's selection. She always smiled brightly at the scout as he handed her his coins in exchange for the piece of fruit. She was perhaps the only person who ever really smiled at Tristan.

That's why I decided once and for all that she would be the girl with whom he would spend eternity. I suppose such decisions should not be made rashly, but I was just so sick of it all. I was tired of having to deal with the scout everyday and having to watch his interludes with other women. It tore me up inside to be so close to him knowing that he would never feel about me the way that I felt about him. What was worse was that I did not actually want him to feel for me as I did for him---to love me only because of the dark work of a sorcerer's potion.

If he were to love me, I wanted him to truly love me. But after our encounter last night, I knew that to be impossible. He had pitied Rosaleen, killed Brianna, and now must have thought me a raving lunatic after what had happened last night---after he had interrogated me about what I was hiding---after I had remembered the Unspeakable. Yet, the concern in his eyes as he asked me about my leg---that was real, wasn't it? And the way he had pulled me close to him---had that been real? No, surely my imagination was just running away with me again. Everything he had done last night had been to force an admission out of me about how I was so certain I could make people fall in love.

Still, I wondered if he already knew about the potion. Certainly his suspicions were aroused. He suspected there was more at play than I was letting on, and he was right. That's why I needed to act quickly. Tristan and Nabelie would soon fall deeply in love with each other, and I would leave Hadrian's Wall never to return. I had to leave because even the thought of their happily ever after was more than I could bear---except that Tristan would be happy, much happier than he ever could have been with me. And if anyone deserved to be happy, it was Tristan.

But I was done with the tragedy and self-pity. If I kept this attitude up, I would become as melancholic and sullen as the scout himself, and that simply would not do. Life was too short to waste on such desolation. I knew that first hand. The thing about pain is that without it, we do not know what happiness is. Good is good only because it is contrasted with evil. It was only through knowing the darkness that I found the light, and I never forgot how fortunate I was to be alive. I could still hear His voice echoing in my ears, '_Save yourself_,' and I had. But enough of that already.

I approached the fruit stand where Nabelie sat behind the table counting the coins she and her father had already collected that day. She looked up at me with a bright smile and I smiled kindly at her in return, pretending to browse the selection of apples. After she returned her attention back to her counting, I quickly grabbed two of the green apples from the cart and used a tiny needle to inject the potion into each piece of fruit.

"Can I help you with anything?" Nabelie asked politely, looking up again from her work.

"You don't have any red apples?" I asked casually, quickly slipping the needle back into my pocket.

"No," she replied, smiling apologetically, "No one buys the red ones anymore, so we stopped selling them."

"No one?" I asked in mock disgust, "What has this country come to? Everyone knows that the red ones are the best." I let out a melodramatic sigh and looked disappointedly down at the two green apples in my hands.

"Oh, I don't know," said Nabelie sweetly, "I think the green ones are just as good."

"Perhaps you are right," I said, "In fact, I know someone who loves the green apples. I think you might know him too. He's one of Arthur's knights."

"Oh, you must mean Tristan," she said with a laugh, "Yes, I dare say, without him we would quite possibly go out of business."

"Ah, so you do know him!" I exclaimed cheerfully, "I had feared it was only a one-sided acquaintance."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean…"

"Well, I really shouldn't be telling you this, because I promised not to say anything," I said conversationally as if we had always been the closest of friends, "but it's my understanding that our dear scout rather fancies you."

'_Or at least he will_,' I thought, '_after he gets a taste of that apple.' _I was amazed at how easily the lies could roll off my tongue. When had I learned that?

"Oh," Nabelie replied hesitantly, blushing with embarrassment.

"But please don't tell him that I told you," I added quickly, pretending to have caught myself in an error, "He'd kill me." Now _that _was the truth.

"No, no, I wouldn't. It's just---that---" she stammered, "Well, unfortunately, I can't say that the feeling is mutual. To be perfectly honest, he strikes me as very quiet---very---well, barbarous is perhaps not the correct word, but he certainly does enjoy killing, doesn't he? At least that is what I've heard. I mean, I'm sure he's quite pleasant when you get to know him---"

"Yes!" I interjected quickly, "Yes, very pleasant."

"---It's just that, well, my interests lie with another of the knights, actually."

"What? Who!" I demanded, not caring if I was prying. Who could she possibly prefer to Tristan?

"Oh, you will think I am very foolish if I tell you," she said bashfully.

"No I won't," I insisted, "I confided in you, after all, so it's only fair. It's not Bors, is it?"

Nabelie laughed. "If only Vanora hadn't snagged him first," she quipped, feigning disappointment, "No, I'm afraid my tastes are far more obvious than that. Since you trusted me, I suppose it's only fair that I trust you as well, but please keep this between us. You see, I've always found myself rather attracted to (please don't make fun)---Lancelot."

"Obvious, indeed!" I exclaimed indignantly, "Listen to me Nabelie, I'm telling you this in confidence because I can see you are a nice girl, but Lancelot is _not _the kind of man who is worthy of you. He is shallow and superficial, words I have been mistaken in applying before, but here I am more than certain of their veracity. Now, Tristan, on the other hand, is so deep, so complex that you could spend a lifetime peeling back all his layers to find what lies beneath. He is also brave and loyal, and while he may be quiet, when he speaks, his words are never meaningless. He has a dangerous side, but he uses it only to find the truth about people (I've learned this first hand as well), and though he may not be merciful, he is always just. If only you knew him. If only you _really _knew him, you would see how very---perfect he is."

Nabelie raised a knowing eyebrow. "It sounds like _you_ have fallen for him," she conjectured with a sly smile.

"Me? Oh, no no no…" I protested quickly, "I just want you to understand how much he deserves the love of a good person like you. I mean, I know that you may not be attracted to him now, but he really is rather handsome behind that wild hair of his. If you would only give him a chance…"

She considered this for a moment and, because she was a kindhearted soul who never wanted to disappoint anyone, said finally, "I suppose I may have misjudged him, but what would you have me do?"

I grinned widely with satisfaction and held out the two green apples to her. "That's the easy part."

--------------------------

Little did I know that as I was stirring up trouble for Tristan, he was already finding trouble of his own. Tristan had returned from his scouting expedition and was returning his heavy weaponry back to the armory when he happened upon something he was not meant to find. As he hung his bow back up on the wall, he heard a shuffling sound in the corner behind the armor racks. With his scouting instincts incited, Tristan advanced carefully through the dark towards the muffled sound. What he found was not at all what he had expected.

Lancelot had Guinevere's back pushed up against the wall as her legs wrapped themselves around his waist. Her head lolled back and forth while he kissed her neck with violent passion. "I love you," she moaned softly, "I love you."

Tristan felt sick to his stomach and could watch no more. He quickly retreated from the armory where he practically collided with Nabelie, the girl from the market.

"Excuse me," he muttered, swerving to make his way past her.

"Tristan, wait!" she called after him, treading lightly after him, "I was hoping I would find you here."

He turned around abruptly and looked at her in confusion, having no idea why she would possibly hope to find him anywhere. "I noticed you didn't stop by the market today, so I figured I would bring the market to you," she said with a smile in her usual pleasant tone and offered him one of the green apples that she held in her hands, "Are you hungry?"

Tristan gave her a scrutinizing look as the circumstances around this strange meeting suddenly became clear. "Kira sent you, didn't she?"

"Uhh…who?"

"Where is she?" Tristan demanded, not falling for Nabelie's innocent act.

Nabelie avoided eye contact and shifted her weight awkwardly on her feet, unsure of how to respond. "Where _is _she?" Tristan repeated, growing impatient.

"I-I wasn't supposed to say anything," Nabelie stammered, "Please don't tell her you know it was her idea."

"I don't care whose idea it was," Tristan berated, "but I must know where she is."

Nabelie knew better than to irritate the scout further. "The last I saw her, she was headed towards the tavern."

Tristan nodded curtly and pushed past her in the direction of the tavern. Nabelie stared after him in consternation, completely unsure of what to make of their encounter.

----------------------

I was headed off to the tavern to get drunk. Actually, I was headed off to the tavern to get _very _drunk. I knew that any moment now Tristan and Nabelie would each be taking a bite of their apples, and I would be doomed to solitude forever. I supposed it did not really matter, though. I had never wanted love in the first place. I only wanted to live the best life that I could in honor of Him. Perhaps a life in pursuit of making others happy in love was not such a terrible life after all. I felt the pendant around my neck and quickened my hobbling pace towards the tavern. Regardless of my recently acquired self-righteousness, I still wanted to get drunk.

Suddenly, however, a hand snaked around my wrist and pulled me into a side street, halting my heart mid-beat and knocking the wind from my chest. "_Tristan!_" I gasped, though I was actually relatively relieved that it was him and not some other unknown enemy. "What are you doing here?" I demanded, "You're supposed to be---well, nevermind. What do you want?"

"We need to have a talk about Lancelot," he said dryly with a clear disgust for the subject.

"Lancelot?" I asked quizzically, trying to figure out why we would have to talk about Lancelot. "Oh!" I exclaimed as the answer struck me, "I think I know what you mean. Don't worry, Nabelie will have forgotten all about him soon enough. Tell me, do you like her?"

"No!" Tristan spat, "And you would do well to leave her alone."

This confirmed my suspicion that Tristan had not yet eaten the apple, but I could not figure out what had gone wrong. Had Nabelie changed her mind? Or perhaps she simply had not yet crossed paths with him. No, surely she had since he had not been confused by my speaking of her. I decided to be as vague as possible.

"You know it's my job," I said defensively, "I'm just trying to help. You should give her a chance. Come on, let's go find her."

I started to advance back towards the main street to go look for Nabelie, but Tristan tugged at my wrist, refusing to let me go. "But you're not helping, Kira," he growled, "Your job is ruining people's lives."

Now he had completely lost me. "What do you mean?" I asked puzzledly.

"Lancelot and Guinevere," he reviled, "That was clearly your design, was it not?"

I stared at him blankly with only a vague idea of what he was getting at. I had infected Lancelot with the potion, but what had Guinevere to do with that? She had no active part in any of it, but was only the object of his infatuation---wasn't she?

"Do you deny it?" he persisted, tightening his grip on my wrist, "You've taken credit for all the other matches made lately, haven't you?"

"But---" I stammered, still unable to believe what he was insinuating, "Lancelot and Guinevere are not a match---are they?"

"I found them together in the stables," he said repugnantly.

"Oh gods," I gasped, touching my hand to my mouth, "That cannot be."

"It is," he replied.

"What have I done?" I asked more to myself than to him.

"Possibly ruined the marriage and happiness of my most respected friend," Tristan answered grudgingly, "Do you know what this will do to Arthur if he finds out? Do you even care?"

I stared down at my feet, unable to look him in the eyes and still unable to believe in my sister's infidelity. "You think you're helping us, Kira," he rebuked, "but we're all better off without your interference. You need to stop meddling. You need to leave us all alone."

His sharp words stung against my face and I had never felt so ashamed. I looked up with tears in my eyes to tell him how very sorry I was, but it was too late. He had already released my wrist from his grasp and had stalked off around the corner out of sight. I leaned back and pounded my head against the wall repeatedly in self-castigation. It seemed that lately I had only been detestable in Tristan's eyes, first with his suspicions of my dishonesty last night and now with this. Of course he was justified in both cases, but I could not stand his poor opinion of me any longer. I had to set things right. I had to find a way to set things right.


	7. Chapter 7

As I scuttled along towards Guinevere's quarters, a million excuses ran through my head as to why I was not to blame for her affair with Lancelot. I had not wanted it to happen. I had not meant for it to happen. But in the end, it had happened and I had caused it. I therefore had no other choice but try to set things right. I had to take responsibility for my actions no matter what the cost.

I let out a sigh of resignation and turned the corner to the hall where Guinevere's room was located. I stopped in my tracks when I saw Lancelot slink out of her quarters. He shut the door quietly after him and skulked off in the opposite direction down the hall from where I stood. Any doubts I still held about their affair were obliterated once and for all as I witnessed Lancelot's stealthy exit.

I marched (or rather I hobbled rigorously) up to Guinevere's door and pounded furiously so that the door rattled on its hinges. "Come in," answered a muffled voice from inside.

I opened the door to find Guinevere in the corner fixing her hair and humming lightly to herself as if she hadn't a care in the world. She turned to look at me and smiled. "Oh, Kira," she greeted warmly, "I didn't know you were coming to see me today."

"Apparently I'm not the only one to come see you today," I replied dryly, getting straight down to business, "What was Lancelot doing here?"

"Oh," she said innocently, averting her eyes from me, "He was just looking for Arthur, which has been a bit of a difficult task lately. With all the preparations he has been making for the arrival of the Roman emissary, we've hardly seen him at all. Though I suppose it's understandable. Deciding whether or not to retain connections with the most powerful empire in the world would certainly put a great deal of stress on one's shoulders. Lancelot has been trying to persuade him to sever ties with Rome all together, but it's such a distressful issue for Arthur. Who knows what he will do."

She was clearly trying to sidestep the issue, and it was not going to work. "I'm sure it would not make Arthur's lot any easier if he found out you were being unfaithful to him with Lancelot," I muttered.

Guinevere turned back to me with a stunned look on her face. "How---how did you…?"

"How _could you_?" I admonished with disgust, "How could you do that to Arthur? Or better yet, how could you do that to our people? Your marriage was meant to unite the Britons under Arthur and you throw it all away so easily!"

"It was not easy!" Guinevere refuted defensively, "I tried to resist and I tried to stop it, but Lancelot---he loves me. I mean, he _really_ loves me, and damnit, Kira, I love him in return."

"He does not love you."

"What?"

"He does not love you---at least, not in any way that matters."

"Oh, what do you know of such things?" Guinevere reviled, "Get out. I don't want you here if you're going to tell such terrible lies."

"They're not lies, Guinevere," I replied calmly, "Listen, you must believe what I am about to tell you no matter how much it hurts and no matter how much you hate me afterwards. Do you remember what father had me do to ensure that Arthur would fall in love with you?"

"Yes, there was that potion, but---"

"Do you remember when Lancelot was shot with an arrow in the stables?"

Guinevere's eyes widened at the memory as she suddenly realized exactly what it was that I was suggesting. "No!" she cried out in denial, "That can't be! I don't believe you. What Lancelot and I have is real."

"No," I replied gently, "It's not."

I could see in her eyes the pain my words were causing her and it broke my heart to cause my sister such suffering. Tristan was right. My meddling had ruined people's lives. I cursed Merlin for giving me such a disgraceful assignment and most of all, I cursed myself for accepting that disgraceful assignment without thinking of the effects it might have on others. Where was the old Kira of years past before the Unspeakable who never would have allowed herself to be so degraded? I did not want to answer that question.

"You---You infected Lancelot with the potion?" asked Guinevere weakly, her voice trembling, "Why? Why would you do that to me---to him?"

"We didn't think anything would ever come of it," I explained, "Lancelot was causing trouble among the other Woad men. This was father's solution."

"Well something _did _come of it," Guinevere hissed, "And what's worse is that none of it even matters now because it was all a lie, wasn't it? You have been letting me live a lie! I fell in love with Lancelot. I could not resist him nor the way he would look at me, speak to me, hold me. I _love _him, but now I learn that all he feels for me is some fake, potion-induced emotion. What do I do now? I-I can't live without the belief in his love. My life is meaningless without him."

"Perhaps you should try feeling that way about your husband," I suggested unsympathetically, "and caring about the way _he _looks at you and holds you and speaks to you."

"Please! You think love is so simple," she wailed, "but you will never understand the way I feel at this moment---the hopelessness. You tell me that the man who I thought worshipped me does not really love me at all, and you expect me to take it in stride? Do you have any idea what it's like to truly, deeply love someone who does not actually love you in return?"

"You'd be surprised," I muttered under my breath, but Guinevere wasn't listening.

"And poor Lancelot!" she continued, "How terrible it must be not to be able to choose who to love!"

"You have no idea," I mumbled incoherently.

"What was that?" Guinevere snapped.

"I said: how funny it is that you never cared that Arthur was never given a choice," I countered, "Poor Arthur, who holds so dearly to his idea of free will."

"Arthur has everything he's ever wanted in this country," said Guinevere dismissively, "And Lancelot gave me everything that I ever desired. I had never even realized how much I had wanted love and romance and companionship until the day he offered it to me."

"Bloody hell!" I screamed, "That's what your husband is for!"

"I don't know why I expected you to sympathize," Guinevere spat bitterly, "You who are always 'Poor Kira' in our father's eyes. It shouldn't have surprised me that you two would join together against me to ruin my chances at happiness---"

"Please! We did nothing of the kind!" I cried in exasperation, "And you obviously don't need my sympathy since you have more than enough for yourself."

"Why am I always the one of whom our father demands sacrifices?" Guinevere whined resentfully, "First I am forced to marry a man I do not love and then when I do find love with a man, he sends you to spoil it! Yes, you! 'Poor Kira' with her crippled leg who has no responsibilities, who gets a break from her father's expectations all because she was tortured once!"

My heart stopped, petrified. She had said it out loud. She had said the Unspeakable. I wanted to reply, to tell her exactly what I thought, but it was as though a wall had erected itself between my mind and my mouth and no words could pass.

"You act like you are the only one who has ever suffered," Guinevere persisted viciously, relentlessly, "but you're not! You're _not_."

She paused for a moment to catch her breath as we stared vehemently into each other's eyes, neither of us willing to surrender. Her face was only inches from mine now, trying to intimidate me into submission. My cheeks were hot with rage and my hands were balled into fists, trembling with ferocity.

"Well?" she demanded, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

I looked her straight in the eyes and then I socked her right across the jaw, a stunning blow. I did not wait for her response, but staggered out of the room and slammed the door behind me.

-------------------

I decided that this night more than any other, I needed a drink of the alcoholic kind. I had never been much of a drinker, but over the last couple days, I was beginning to see its advantages. I was still fuming with anger over my argument with Guinevere as I limped my way down to the tavern. Once there, I found an empty table where I would not be disturbed and ordered myself an ale. Apparently, I could not even choose a table correctly, however, because I was soon interrupted by Galahad and Eleanor who approached me only minutes after I had sat down.

"Do you know where Tristan is?" asked Galahad in his usual, blunt manner.

"I haven't seen him since earlier today," I replied, hoping the young knight would be satisfied with this response and leave me alone.

"Nobody has," Galahad said with discomfiture, "He's been gone all afternoon and this evening. The Roman emissary will be arriving soon and Arthur wants all the knights to congregate at the round table for a ceremony. Did he happen to tell you where he was going?"

"No," I replied shortly, "Why would he tell me?"

"Well," reasoned Galahad, "You two are always together."

"Is there something between you two, love?" Eleanor added with a wink.

"Dearest…" Galahad reprehended in a sickenly sweet tone, "That's really none of our---"

"It would be wonderful if there was," Eleanor continued, ignoring Galahad, "The scout has always struck me as so lonely, so---"

Eleanor was thankfully interrupted by Lancelot and Guinevere who had exited the main hall in the middle of a heated quarrel. For the most part, their words were indistinguishable from afar, but the gist of the argument seemed to be that Guinevere had made a decision that Lancelot could not understand and now she never wanted to see him again. The dispute ended with Guinevere storming off back into the main hall and Lancelot stalking off dejectedly in the opposite direction.

That was when I discovered Tristan watching me from the opposite corner of the tavern. He had returned from wherever he had been just in time to see the entire altercation between Lancelot and Guinevere. At this very moment, however, he was staring directly at me with a look on his face that oddly resembled regard. Our eyes met and he gave me a slight nod of acknowledgement. He knew that I had done my part to separate Lancelot and Guinevere, and I could not help but perceive that I had earned his respect. If only he knew that I had done it all for him.

Galahad and Eleanor noticed Tristan as well and quickly rushed off to greet him. I did not join them nor did I want the return of their company. Instead, I staggered off to breathe in the night's air and clear my head. Before I knew it, I had hobbled all the way to the main gate which had presently been opened to receive the Roman emissary's entourage. A line of carriages surrounded by Roman cavalry entered as Jols and a few other servants waited to greet them. Arthur and the rest of the knights, I assumed, would be waiting in the hall of the round table as Galahad had reported.

This was the moment that I will always remember: the door to one of the carriages opened and out stepped a man I had thought I would never again encounter. I could not deny, though, that deep down I had hoped he would return. I had dreamt of it. I had thirsted for the taste of vengeance. I had yearned for the day that I would kill Tiberius Adonis.

He was older than I remembered with graying hair and a wrinkled brow, but he still stood powerful and strong with broad shoulders and a solid frame. He walked with an arrogant swagger that revealed his belief that everyone around him was his inferior. I felt the rage stirring in my gut as I watched him advance towards Jols and the other servants who would lead the way to the round table.

My body was no longer my own as I felt myself stumbling towards the coterie of Roman politicians and their guards. I was not thinking rationally, but instead my entire world had come into focus with the sole purpose of killing Tiberius Adonis. I was only a few feet away from my target when I pulled a dagger from my boot and leapt into the crowd of Roman scum. I slashed this way and that, trying to hack my way to Tiberius, but how effective could a poor, crippled girl be against Roman cavalry?

I felt a blade slash across my stomach followed by the warmth of my own blood seeping onto my shirt. Two pairs of brawny Roman arms grabbed me from behind, hauling my struggling body from the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Jols trying to interpose and speak out in protest, but he was quickly silenced by the sharp glare of Tiberius Adonis and the brandished swords of the remaining Roman guards.

Tiberius then turned his attention to the guards who held me. "Kill her," he ordered with a disgusted wave of his hand.

I could hear the scraping of my bones against the hard ground as they dragged me off into the alley, but I could not actually feel the ground's impact. I had my head held up towards the dark sky and I felt a kind of euphoria as though I were levitating above the ground, floating through the abandoned street. I wondered if this were how everyone felt right before they died. I wondered if everyone felt this ready for it.

But then I saw the silhouette of a pair of wings in the starry night. The cry of a hawk sounded as the Roman hands released me from their grip, sending my body crashing to the floor. What happened next was all a blur.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything happened so fast that it was like I was drowning in the speed of the moment and in the enormous blur that swallowed me in its obscurity. I felt myself crumble to the ground, clutching my bleeding stomach in my hands. Suddenly, however, I was joined by the two Roman guards who collapsed onto the ground next to me. They released guttural cries and died moments later from the slashes to their chests, but their eyes remained eerily open with blank stares that sent chills up my spine. Everything was silent, but the silence was so loud that it roared in my ears.

It was then that I became aware of the presence of a third person whose voice cut through that silence in the same way that his sword had apparently cut through my assailants. "Kira…" the voice broke through, "Are you alright?"

A hand had gripped my shoulder and was presently pulling me up gently to a sitting position. My eyes finally came into focus to find none other than Tristan kneeling beside me, his sword unsheathed and dripping with Roman blood. I was having the strangest sensation of déjà vu and found myself wondering what it was about dark alleys that always sent me flat on my face. It's strange what kind of thoughts fly through your mind at such perilous moments. I quickly shook myself from my reverie and turned my attention back to Tristan.

"Well don't go making a bloody hero out of yourself," I chided, trying to make light of the situation, "I'm perfectly fine."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, "Fine enough to jump into the middle of a Roman cavalry. You're bleeding."

"It's only a scratch," I insisted, applying more pressure to my stomach in a hopeless attempt to cover up the blood.

My efforts were not enough to convince Tristan, however, who, without asking for consent, hastily lifted my wounded body up in his arms. "I'm perfectly capable of walking, you know," I declared haughtily.

"That doesn't mean you should," he mumbled, as he continued to carry me out of the night and into the fort's main edifice.

Resigning to the fact that any struggle to free myself from his arms would be in vain, I instead let myself sink into his embrace, resting my head against his chest so that I could hear his heart beating. I did not care if my feelings were potion-induced, but at that moment I knew that I wanted to stay safely locked in his arms forever. By the gods, I was turning into a cliche, love-obsessed fool. We soon passed the hall of the round table where Lancelot and Arthur were inside arguing before the arrival of the Roman party.

"I can't believe you are agreeing to meet these people," Lancelot was berating his friend and commander, "You know how the Romans are. They take and take and then they take some more."

"I have made no decisions," said Arthur rationally, "I will at least hear them out."

"Well you are a fool to do so," replied Lancelot indignantly, "What of the horrors they wreaked upon this country? Is Rome still more precious to you than your own wife?"

"I wonder, Lancelot," Arthur said apprehensively, "why our arguments always end on Guinevere."

Their voices soon vanished into the distance as we continued down the passage. Tristan wound his way through the halls for what seemed an eternity until we finally reached his quarters where he carefully placed me on his bed. We stared curiously at each other for a moment, but just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, there was a knock at the door.

"Don't move," Tristan ordered as he turned from me and quickly exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

Ignoring his command, I crept over to the closed door in order to hear the muffled voice of the visitor outside which I quickly ascertained to belong to Jols. "That's Guinevere's sister, isn't it?" Jols was asking, "Is she badly hurt?"

"She'll be fine," responded Tristan, "You said you have a message from Arthur?"

"That's right," said Jols in his usual laid back manner of speaking that was completely devoid of formality, "Arthur told me to tell you that he's handling the situation, but he wants the girl kept away from the round table at all costs. He says he can't risk any more outbursts as long as the Romans have come in good faith." Jols paused for a moment probably trying to read Tristan's reaction, but finding that task impossible, he continued warily, "I know that you and the knights, particularly Lancelot, do not agree with the Romans' even being here…"

I had heard enough. I limped away from the door and staggered towards the window to make my escape. My plan was to wait outside of the hall of the round table until the ceremony was over. Then, when the moment was right and Tiberius was finally alone, I would strike. I made it to the window and began to climb up onto the ledge when a pair of hands suddenly grabbed me from behind and tossed me back onto the bed.

"Let me go!" I protested, thrashing and flailing my arms about in a hopeless attempt to break free, but those same hands were now wrapped firmly around my wrists.

"Settle down," Tristan commanded, holding my arms to my sides to prevent me from struggling further.

I ceased my resistance, releasing the tension from my muscles and allowing myself to relax. I looked at Tristan very seriously and said, "Listen, you have to let me go. This does not concern you. Just let me go."

"Why?"

Did he really think I would answer that? "I'm bleeding all over your bed," I replied.

The corner of his mouth curled up slightly at my response. "It doesn't matter," he said.

"Please Tristan, I beg of you," I pleaded, "There is something that I have to do and you mustn't try to stop me."

"What you must do," he replied, his hands still gripping my wrists, "is tell me why you tried to take on an entire Roman cavalry by yourself."

"I don't have to tell you anything. Besides, perhaps I do not want any of your _interference_," I spat bitterly, throwing his own words back at him.

"You didn't seem to mind my interference when those soldiers tried to kill you," he countered, "It's your choice to tell me or not. Otherwise, we can just sit here silently for the next few hours, if you like."

Certainly that last suggestion of silence was more in his favor than it was in mine. I thought it over for a moment and finally let out a sigh of resignation, looking him unwillingly in the eyes. "I was trying to kill Tiberius Adonis," I admitted, "I made a promise a long time ago to do so, and I will keep that promise even if it means my death."

"You're not going to die," Tristan replied, as though his saying it would make it so.

"How do you know?" I asked doubtingly.

"Because then there would be no one left to meddle in my affairs," he said in complete seriousness, though I knew he was jesting.

"Well," I returned, somewhat surprised that he would care if I lived or died, even in jest, "I suppose I will just have to live and pester you for the rest of eternity."

"Since that's settled," he said, "let me take a look at your wound."

He reached for the end of my shirt, but I quickly snatched at his hand to stop him. "No, don't," I resisted anxiously, "It's fine."

"You don't know how deep it is," he said calmly, "We may need to sew it up."

"Why?"

"Because you're bleeding all over my bed."

I raised an eyebrow at him as if to say that I was not amused, but his hands were already working at the end of my shirt again. "I said _don't!_" I objected sharply, "I don't want you to look at me."

Tristan removed his hands and looked me square in the eyes. "Do you want to bleed to death?" he asked sternly.

"No," I murmured reluctantly.

"Then you have to trust me," he said, "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

I looked down at my shirt that was now completely soaked through with blood and knew that I had no other choice. I nodded warily in consent at Tristan who did not delay in lifting the blood-drenched shirt up over my head. He was sitting next to me now and I shuddered as I could feel his eyes immediately drawn to the innumerable scars that ran every which way all across my body. There were the wide markings pushed out by my protruding ribs, the long scar that streaked across my upper breast, and finally the slashes that covered my back so that there was more scar tissue than there was skin. I felt the heat of Tristan's stare and let my eyes fall shamefully to the floor.

He did not comment, but felt along the sliced skin of my stomach. "Lie back," he said, "It's going to need stitches."

I reclined back on his bed as he retrieved a needle and thread to sew up the cut and a damp cloth to wipe the blood away. He returned to my side and began to clean the wound gently and methodically. I wondered why he was being so kind and going through so much trouble to take care of me. I decided that he was just doing as Arthur had bid him by keeping me away from the round table. I supposed I would always just be a nuisance to him.

"Kira, who did that to your leg?" he asked very suddenly, but with unprecedented compassion.

"No."

"The same person who gave you those scars?"

"Don't."

"Was it Tiberius Adonis?"

The wall between my mind and my mouth had once again erected itself and I knew that no matter how desperately I wanted to confide in Tristan, the words would always remain unspoken. "Tristan, stop," I said, "Things were done---terrible things, but I can't---I can't say them out loud. I don't know why. It's just that those things---they are---"

"Unspeakable."

I froze at the sound of the word that I had only ever heard inside my own mind. "Yes," I replied in bewilderment, "You understand, then?"

"I understand war," he said plainly, "I have done many things that are unspeakable."

"Perhaps that is why you speak so little," I suggested.

"I don't know," he replied, "That would imply that I regretted doing them."

"That is where you and I differ," I said thoughtfully, "I have many regrets. Is there nothing you would change about your life?"

"My life is the way it is," he said simply, "I accept it. You keep looking back over your shoulder and you'll miss what's in front of you."

"Is that your personal philosophy?" I asked.

"Perhaps," he replied, discarding the cleaning cloth and retrieving the needle and thread, "I'm going to start putting in the stitches now."

"I'm ready," I said firmly.

Tristan fed the needle through my skin cautiously, trying to cause as little pain as possible. I did not even flinch. "It does not hurt?" he asked almost unbelievingly.

I smiled and gave a shrug of my shoulders. "I don't mind it," I replied.

There was then silence between us as he concentrated on his stitching. At various intervals, he would shift his attention to my face as if he expected I might lose consciousness at any moment. He always seemed relieved when he found me alert and offering him an appreciative smile. It certainly was not his responsibility to patch me up, and I wanted him to know I was grateful.

He glanced up at me once more, but this time he stared curiously at the silver pendant that hung around my neck. "You always wear that?" he murmured.

"Yes."

"Any special significance?"

"Just another regret."

"How so?"

I was perplexed at the curiosity the pendant had sparked in him. "Someone gave it to me," I explained.

"Someone you loved?"

"Someone who died---who shouldn't have died."

"That is the regret?"

"That is the regret," I confirmed, "My life seems full of them lately. I really screwed things up for Lancelot and Guinevere with my meddling."

"I was wrong to blame you for that," he said solemnly. At first, I was not sure I had heard him correctly.

"No you weren't," I replied, "I caused it. Their affair is my fault."

"You don't control who people fall in love with, Kira," he said, "The feelings between Lancelot and Guinevere had been brewing since before the battle at Badon Hill. We all saw it."

"No, you don't understand," I contested, "I _do _control who people fall in love with."

Tristan had stopped his stitching now and was staring at me as though trying to read my thoughts. Actually, I would not have been surprised if he _could _read my thoughts. "There's something I've wanted to tell you in regards to that," he said in a tone that I could not quite distinguish. It was as though he were about to make some kind of revelation that he had been keeping a secret. At any rate, he had intrigued me.

"Oh?" I asked, "What's that?"

"I have been very critical of your meddling and matchmaking," he acknowledged gravely, "and although I played along, I never took it very seriously."

"Well," I interjected, "I never thought it a business that deserved much respect anyway."

"Nevertheless, I have been very hard on you," he said, "but only because I feel it is so beneath you."

Did he really believe that? Did he really think I was better than the work I had degraded myself to? I remembered how he had believed that I could lift myself into his horse's saddle even when I had given up hope for myself. "I don't know if it's beneath me," I replied honestly, "but I certainly turned out to be no good at it. I couldn't even find a match for you."

He paused for a moment as though to compose his thoughts. "In regards to that," he said solemnly, "I have been very blind. I---"

I knew what was coming next. He was going to tell me that he had been very blind to so easily dismiss Nabelie as a possible mate, but I could not bear to listen to him say it. Tristan was seated so very close to me now and I could feel his hot breath against my cheek. I wanted only to cherish the present moment when it was only he and I alone together with no Nabelie and no discussion of their future happiness. "Oh," I interrupted, "Let's not talk about that now."

"Oh," he replied, dropping his eyes in what seemed like disappointment, "Alright."

But then he did a strange thing. He touched his hand to my forehead and gently brushed away a stray hair, leaning his face very near to mine. For a moment, we were so close that I feared he would hear the rapid palpitations of my heart that beat like war drums. I swallowed hard in terrified anticipation that he would ki---but he didn't. Instead, he sat up abruptly and said, "I'm almost done with the stitches."

"Good," I replied hoarsely.

Tristan tied the last knot on the thread and helped me up into a sitting position, gently placing one hand on my back to support me. I trembled involuntarily as I felt his fingers lightly tracing the scars. "You wish to take revenge on Tiberius Adonis?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I replied, clasping the pendant firmly in my hands, "but not for myself. I made a promise---a long time ago."

Tristan nodded in understanding. He walked over to the corner of the room and returned with a spare shirt that he threw over my head and around my shoulders. I slid my arms into the sleeves and looked up at him expectantly. "Let's go," he said.

"Go?" I asked quizzically, "Go where?"

"To kill Tiberius Adonis."

"But Arthur said---"

"Is that going to stop you?"

"No."

"Then let's go."


	9. Chapter 9

Hey, I just wanted to thank everyone again for all your comments. I hope you all have a wonderful Holiday Season!

----------

What else was there left to say? We headed back to the main gate where I had abandoned my bow and the rest of my effects. I slung the bow over my shoulder and we returned to the hall of the round table where the Romans had congregated along with Arthur, Guinevere, and the rest of knights. The low hum of their conversation stopped abruptly as the door swung open and Tristan and I strode into the hall.

I immediately locked eyes with Tiberius Adonis as Tristan motioned Arthur aside to speak to him in confidence. Arthur listened intently to his trusted scout, nodding gravely, and then turned his attention back to his Roman guests. "I must ask you all to leave," he announced rather unexpectedly, "Jols will see you out."

"But Arthur---" protested one of the older Roman politicians with white hair, "We have not even begun to discuss the---"

"I assure you I have heard quite enough," interrupted Arthur firmly, "You arrived from Rome under the pretense of forming an alliance, but thus far I have listened only to demands and stipulations. I have therefore heard more than enough and must ask you to leave now. Except for you, Tiberius Adonis---we still have matters to discuss."

Tiberius's companions looked warily in his direction as though hesitant to leave him alone, but Tiberius let out an arrogant, unconcerned laugh and waved them away. "Well go on!" he barked at them impatiently, "If the King of the Britons wishes to renounce his Roman blood, then so be it. He cannot have much more then to say to me. I will meet you at the carriages."

The Roman politicians along with their guards filed out of the hall, abandoning the contemptuous Tiberius Adonis who stood with his usual lazy posture, imperiously sipping his goblet of wine. It was satisfying to reckon that his own arrogance would lead at last to his death. "Well, Arthur," he addressed condescendingly after the rest of his party had exited the hall, "Now what is it you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Kira," said Arthur, ignoring Tiberius and turning his attention to me, "You have charges to bring against this man?"

This was the moment I had been waiting for, wasn't it? So why was my mouth not moving? I supposed that it was because whenever I had imagined this moment, I had always solely envisioned the act of finally killing Tiberius. What did one say at such a moment? I strengthened my grip on my bow and waited for words to spill out, but none came.

"You can say it," said Tristan suddenly, as though recognizing my internal struggle, "What did Tiberius do to you?"

Tristan's voice startled me, but I looked Tiberius straight in the face with all the strength I could muster while he in turn narrowed his eyes at me in contempt. "Nothing," I said very seriously, "He did nothing to me---nothing of any consequence, anyway."

I looked at Guinevere apologetically. "We have all suffered," I said.

I turned to Tristan with reverence. "And I have no regrets," I added.

I brought my gaze back to Tiberius. "Besides having two working legs again, there is nothing I would change about my life," I remarked with a shrug, "You have taken nothing from me. You have not defeated me. I only wish---I only wish I could say the same of a boy you killed not but a year ago. Do you remember him? He was only a year younger than I."

Tiberius Adonis smiled cruelly. "I have killed many heathen children," he snarled, "Too many to remember one in particular."

I wanted to leap across the table and rip out his heart right then and there, but Arthur broke in quickly with disgust. "And you wonder why I reject my Roman heritage," he spat.

"If you are quite done," said Tiberius with a scowl, "I will rejoin my party. Goodbye, Arthur Castus. I'm sorry our visit turned out to be such a waste."

Tiberius turned and strode haughtily towards the door. I wished at that moment that I could hear the thoughts that ran through his mind. I imagine, however, that he wondered why, when he was so close to the door and so close to freedom, that my arrow embedded itself into the middle of his back. I imagine that he wondered if I would next come to take his head. I imagine that he died wondering because I did not grant him the mercy of a quick death. I watched his black blood seeping onto the floor as he gasped out his last breaths and died with an agonizing frown on his face.

I felt Arthur's eyes upon me and I quickly turned back to face him. "I understand if you cannot approve of what I've done," I said uncertainly, still shaken from the image of Tiberius Adonis lying dead on the floor, "But I made a promise and I will accept any consequences for keeping it."

"I could only have disapproved," said Arthur righteously, "if you had _not_ kept your word. I admire your integrity, and what you did was just."

"Thank you, Arthur," I replied gratefully, respecting him more in that moment than I ever had before and feeling very sorry for my past interference of which he had never even been aware. My eyes flitted over to Lancelot and Guinevere who stood conveniently together in the corner, though Guinevere had sworn to never associate with him again. "You deserve much better," I said to Arthur remorsefully, "than you have been given."

Arthur cocked his head curiously at me, but I gave him no explanation. Enough revelations had already been made for one night. Instead, I quickly staggered from the hall, barely reaching the corridor before a long set of fingers wrapped themselves around my wrist and pulled me forcefully back inside.

"Tristan," I greeted plainly, no longer caught off guard by his sudden appearances, "What is it?"

He looked down at me for a moment as though taking the question into consideration. "Where are you going?" he asked finally.

"I have business to attend to," I replied stiffly, wondering why he cared where I went or what I did. He had been acting incredibly strange all night. If I hadn't known any better I would have said that he---but no, that was impossible.

"You have already killed an important Roman politician," he said in his subtle manner of teasing, "What else could you have to do?"

"Well," I jested lightly, "There is still the Emperor and the Pope."

"You will need a better bow for that," he replied, allowing me a small smile.

"There is nothing wrong with my bow," I refuted resentfully, glancing down at Tiberius's corpse, "Obviously."

"The Sarmatian bow," Tristan explained didactically, "has a longer range."

Was this conversation actually going anywhere? "Somehow," I quipped, "I doubt you would part with your bow even for such a worthy cause as to be used against the Pope and Emperor."

"That's why you will take Galahad's," Tristan replied.

I smiled despite myself, unsure of what to think of our rather aimless conversation. "Well," I said at last, becoming more serious, "I suppose I should thank you for all you did for me tonight."

Tristan shrugged. "It was the least I could do," he replied, "in return for your matchmaking efforts on my behalf."

I raised an eyebrow at him to show that I doubted his sincerity. "But I never actually found you a match," I protested.

"It would not have mattered," he said, "I told you before that I never took any of it seriously. Love is not something that can be coordinated or planned."

"I fear I have never witnessed it in any other way," I replied gravely. Tristan's eyes dropped to the floor and I could not help but feel that I had offended him somehow. "But," I added, "What do you think of Nabelie?"

"What do _you _think of her?" he asked indifferently.

"Me? Oh," I said casually, "I think she is very beautiful and sweet-natured. Any man would be fortunate to win her affections. Wait here a moment. I have an idea."

I hobbled quickly over to the table where the wine and other refreshments had been laid out for the ceremony. As I looked around to make sure I had not caught anyone's attention, I noticed that everyone had already departed the hall, probably moving their party to the tavern. Satisfied that no one was watching, I pulled out a packet of the potion from my effects which I proceded to sprinkle into one of the wine jugs. Once it had disolved into the wine, I carried the jug back over to Tristan.

"Take this," I offered, "and share it with Nabelie."

"Kira…"

"It's a proper gesture," I added, "after she was thoughtful enough to bring you those apples."

"Kira…"

"Tristan, take it," I pleaded, holding out the jug to him, "I beg you---take it."

He reluctantly took the wine from my hands, eyeing it with apprehension. "Is this what you want?" he asked earnestly, "What you _really _want?"

"Yes," I lied, "It is."

----------------------------

Snow had begun to fall as I fled from the fort at Hadrian's Wall and made my way to the old graveyard where the knights buried their fallen brothers. I suspected that Tristan and Nabelie were presently somewhere or other pouring themselves a glass of wine and intoxicating themselves not only with alcohol but with a deep and permanent kind of love that only Merlin's potion could supply. My work was done.

More important than my completion of any of Merlin's assignments, however, was that I had kept my promise to an old friend. I knelt down on the hallowed ground of the graveyard and tugged the silver pendant loose from my neck. I began digging at the frozen ground with my hands, ignoring the numbing of my fingers from the cold. Once I was satisfied with the depth of the hole, I laid the pendant inside and began covering it back up with my trembling hands. It was the only grave He would ever receive.

"Goodbye my friend," I whispered somberly, "I have kept my promise. Rest in peace, now."

Just then, I heard the rustling of footsteps from behind and turned abruptly to discover Tristan standing tall in the moonlight, as the snow danced around him in the winter breeze. "What are you doing here?" I demanded, quickly wiping the stray tears from my eyes, "You're supposed to be with Nabelie."

"That's what you wanted," he replied simply, "but it's not what I wanted."

"What did you do with the wine?" I inquired anxiously, noticing that he was no longer carrying the jug.

"You mean the wine that you drugged with your father's potion?" he asked sternly.

My heart stopped mid-beat and I could not prevent my eyes from bulging out of their sockets. "H-How did you…?"

"I had my suspicions," he explained, "So while you were speaking with Guinevere this afternoon, I went to see Merlin."

I could not believe what I was hearing. "Why would Merlin even tell you about the potion?" I asked in consternation, "Especially before I had a chance to infect you with it?"

"It doesn't work."

"What?"

"The potion is ineffective," Tristan clarified.

"That's impossible," I insisted, knowing first hand how well the potion worked.

"Merlin tried the potion himself," explained Tristan patiently, "He suspects the potion may speed up the manifestation of love in one where feelings already exist, but for him and for anyone else not destined to fall in love, it is useless. He also mentioned something about large ears, but I did not pursue that matter further."

Could this possibly be true? What did this mean? All of my assumptions were crashing down around me as they proved completely false. Yet, I was surprisingly not at all devastated by the revelation. Instead, I felt a great relief as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders because I was no longer responsible for its most important matters of the heart.

I was experiencing so many different emotions at once that I no longer knew exactly what I was feeling. My heart warmed at the fact that Gawain and Anna truly loved each other and had only needed an excuse to meet. My heart also warmed at the fact that the love Galahad and Eleanor had found was real as well and had only needed a bit of laughter on which to grow. But at the same time, my heart turned to stone at the thought that both Arthur and Lancelot, the best of friends, had fallen for the same woman, my sister Guinevere. I could only hope that Guinevere had been serious in her determination to end the affair with Lancelot. I had faith that she would do the right thing, though. More than anything, however, my heart quivered in fear for myself at the realization that I really, truly loved Tristan.

"I-I can't believe it," I found myself saying out loud, "All this time I thought that my feelings---I thought that the arrow---"

"I wasn't sure what to believe either," Tristan admitted, "So I tested the potion myself."

"You what?" I asked, not quite sure I had heard him correctly.

"I did as you told me," he said, "I carried the wine with me to the tavern where I found Nabelie. I took a drink from the jug and stared directly at her. I felt nothing---at least, nothing compared to the way I feel when I look at you, so I gave the jug to Lancelot---"

"What did you say?" I gasped, utterly bewildered.

"I said I gave the jug to Lancelot," he repeated, "and he took it to Nabelie's table. You said she liked him, didn't you?"

"No, no," I said, shaking my head impatiently, "What you said before that."

Tristan smirked. "I said that I love you."

No sooner than he had uttered these words, Tristan leaned down and pressed his mouth to mine. I kissed him back. I loved him back. And for the second time, my life was changed forever.

_Fin._


End file.
